


The Cornish Horror: Or, How John Watson Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Sherlock Holmes

by finangler



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Big Bang Challenge, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-27
Updated: 2011-01-27
Packaged: 2017-10-15 03:11:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 34,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/156432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finangler/pseuds/finangler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes had never really been in the "helping people" business in the first place. (Sherlock Big Bang!Fill)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers: Up to and including TGG
> 
> Warnings: Language, Sexual Content, Drug Use. A complete lack of familiarity with Cornwall in specific and England in general, as well as medicine, chemistry, or anthropology. Apologies ahead of time.
> 
> Disclaimer: The characters of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, as depicted in BBC's "Sherlock" are the property of Messrs. Gatiss and Moffatt. Not I, who am only using these characters for entertainment purposes and with no intention of making money or claiming ownership. The story "The Adventure of Devil's Foot Root" belongs to the public by this point, but was originally written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

“Please,” the woman begged tearfully. “You have to help me. I don’t have anywhere else to go.” Her grief, thank God, was at least restrained to subtle tremors and glistening eyes. Sherlock wasn’t sure what he would have done if she had begun outright sobbing or, heaven forbid, reached out to touch him in some form of supplication.

Sorry, the words hung sluggishly at the end of his tongue, _we’re not in the “helping people” business, anymore._ Which was a lie; he hadn’t been in the “helping people” business to *start* with.

* * *

It had been an epically outrageous climax that ended that night by the poolside. Sherlock could sometimes still feel the strain in his arm as he held John’s borrowed pistol for what felt like hours. His muscles were beginning to cramp, and in the distant part of his mind *not* occupied with the incendiary vest, Moriarty’s wicked dark glare, the red dots winking in and out of focus on his and John’s vital parts, and John (oh, _John_ ) shuddering tight and ready against the change-stall, he wondered how his tremors would affect his aim.

Sherlock would always remember, with a clarity of memory most couldn’t dream of possessing, the gut-wrenching anticipation as he felt his index finger pull, ever so gently…

 _I’m sorry, John. Truly._

For how much anguish Sherlock had felt in the last 10 minutes alone, having his brother come with the Inspectors of New Scotland Yard and save the day seemed…anticlimactic.

Sherlock chose not to tell John, as the blond vomited his anxiety and was helped to stand by Sgt. Donovan while Lestrade repeated Sherlock’s name incessantly in his ear, that there was another sensation saturating Sherlock beyond the leg-weakening relief at seeing John alive and _whole._

 _Disappointing._

* * *

And so they ended that scene outside; settled on the back space of the ambulance that had nothing better to do, with no injured parties to tend to. They sat there, side by side, with practically no space between them, their matching offensively bright blankets draping their shoulders, looking no doubt like a pair of cheap wool book-ends.

“Well,” John began, voice no longer tinged with adrenaline or despair, “That was…Well, it was horrifying.”

“And it isn’t over,” Sherlock responded, turning his head towards John and, seeing the shorter man’s wince, realized that he had said entirely the wrong thing.

“There are only so many times I can be terrified in one night, Sherlock. Please.” It was said in John’s usual mildly exasperated tone, but there was a new undertone to its softness. It sounded much like exhaustion, and a bit like fear, but there was something else in it, which Sherlock couldn’t pinpoint. He didn’t focus on it too much; he would suss it out eventually.

What was worrying Sherlock right now was the way that John had seemed to magnify in his vision. Suddenly, he couldn’t seem to see anything outside of John’s face, bags under his eyes alarmingly obvious. Sherlock found himself inexplicably focusing on a bit of John’s military-short hair that had fallen forward onto his forehead. It was similar to how he felt when he had first seen John walk out of the change-stall.

Sherlock could still remember those words ( _-Evening. This is a turn up, isn’t it, Sherlock?-_ ) and then the sudden, clenching doubt. Wondering if, all along, all this *time*, he had somehow miscalculated something vital. And then, upon seeing John open his parka to reveal wires and lights beneath, suddenly *knowing* he had.

He hadn’t been able to tear his focus away then, and it was even *worse* now, because now he had to squash the urge to reach out and touch John’s face. What he would do once his hand actually breached that divide, he couldn’t even guess. And how John would react he didn’t dare speculate.

The fact of the matter was that all he could see was John Watson, to the complete exclusion of *everything* around them. Sherlock could only force himself to look away as he chastised himself for forgetting the difference between _seeing_ and _observing._

* * *

Tension was causing every nerve in John’s body to tremble uncontrollably, and Sherlock’s overpowering stare wasn’t helping. John felt that he should say something, apologize for putting Sherlock into this position. For being a weakness. Sherlock was looking uncomfortable as well, equally jittery as in the moments just after ripping the vest off of John in frenzied anxiety. Like he was so overwhelmed that he couldn’t even create full sentences. It was decidedly unsettling, and John just wanted to lean forward and reassure him. Which was ridiculous, since Sherlock disdained reassurance with the same intensity as he did platitudes. But still, John couldn’t believe how much it physically hurt to see Sherlock so at a loss. He wasn’t made for it.

“Sherlock, I just want to say…”

“Yes, John?”

“Ah, there you two are. So glad to see you two whole and hale.” Sherlock physically winced in aggravation at the sudden, inexplicable appearance of Mycroft Holmes, three piece suit completely out of place amongst the emergency response personnel and uniformed constables.

“Oh, piss off,” Sherlock responded, although with less irritation than was usually reserved for conversations with his brother. He had saved him, after all. Had saved *them*. That didn’t make John any easier in his presence. Mycroft unsettled John in ways few men could. He was even more unsettling now as his face twisted from his best fake genial smile, to his equally fake benevolent chastisement. Beneath the tone of a concerned politician, John could sense extreme irritation from the elder Holmes.

“Sherlock, really, your language is appalling. Almost as appalling as your deliberate and willful forays into danger that you orchestrated this evening. What would Mummy say?”

“I think she’d be horrified at her fat son haranguing a man who is clearly in shock,” Sherlock snapped, flapping the ends of his blanket in an unintentionally hysterical imitation of a cape. “Here,” Sherlock responded shortly, digging into his trouser pocket and thrusting its removed contents in Mycroft’s general direction.

“Wait,” John’s quiet voice interrupted. “That’s the memory stick with the…”

“With the tax forms I asked you to complete six months ago. Really, Sherlock, you are so irresponsible sometimes,” Mycroft smoothly interrupted, casting a wary glance at the various police and emergency personnel meandering within earshot, to say nothing of gawping bystanders who clearly had nothing interesting going on in their own small, boring lives to keep them entertained.

He reached out and smoothly, but nonchalantly, grasped the proffered thumb drive, which then disappeared somewhere in the folds of his waistcoat. “Try to work on that, would you, John?”

“Um, sure.”

Mycroft wasted no time; after making his cordial goodbyes, he turned to leave. The only thing that separated this exit from the countless others John had witnessed was when Mycroft reached out a large hand and rested it lightly on Sherlock’s now completely tousled curls. It rested only a moment, and Sherlock looked as though he was severely fighting the urge to shake it off, but in the end he let it set there, uncomplaining. Mycroft removed the appendage and continued on his way. The look on Sherlock’s face was one John hadn’t seen before; what looked like self-doubt, but could just as easily have been wary affection for his brother’s comfort.

John chose not to ask about it, instead breaking the silence with, “So, the memory stick lying at the bottom of the pool…?”

“Really, John,” Sherlock responded, airily affronted and seemingly grateful to grasp at some semblance of normality between them. “Those memory sticks are easy to come by and are hardly distinctive. You don’t think I would just hand over Top Secret government files to a certified lunatic do you?”

John almost responded that, after the last week, he had no idea *what* Sherlock would do anymore. He held his tongue, however.

* * *

It would have been too much to hope that things would just go back to normal given a few days of rest and recuperation. Well, what passed for rest with Sherlock shouting for his mobile, for a cuppa, for his microscope, for the telly remote, for *everything*. All of these things happened of course, but in addition to these demands on John and Mrs. Hudson’s energy, there were the “moods.” John didn’t mean to imply that Sherlock was already without his dark moods: his petulant sulks, his lazy periods of boredom, his sweeping declarations when the mood struck him to be pedantic and overbearing. These happened with alarming regularity as it was, until their very unpredictability became predictable.

No, now these were interspersed with bizarre episodes of self-directed irritation intermixed with moments of oppressive solicitousness of John. One moment, Sherlock would be calling out for John to bring him something from the crisper only to completely change his mind upon realizing John had actually done what he had been asked to do. It was maddening and, three weeks after The Pool Incident, was becoming worrying.

“John! What are you doing? You should be sitting down,” he would snap in vexation, snatching the biscuits from John’s hands, dropping them carelessly on the couch. He placed his hands on John’s shoulders, turning him about and manhandling him towards John’s favorite chair, while John protested that Sherlock had *asked* him to get the biscuits, damn it!

The feel of Sherlock’s hands on his shoulders as he pushed and pulled in overwhelming concern while completely disregarding John’s mumbled protests would remind him of Sherlock’s hands ripping off that damned parka and vest in a frenzy of near-panic. Despite the associations, John couldn’t pretend that here, now, in their living room, with nothing more dangerous than the death of brain cells the crap telly was no doubt causing, it was a warm and pleasant feeling.

It had continued on like this for an additional three weeks; six maddening weeks where Sherlock’s unusual moods had been overshadowed in unexpectedness by John’s own.

It was almost a relief to come home one day, arms full of plastic bags brimming with food that Sherlock could not be prevailed upon to actually go out and get himself, the tosser, only to have them unceremoniously snatched from his hands. Sherlock tossed them irreverently towards the kitchen table--towards, not *on*--and halted John’s forward momentum with a speedy push on his good shoulder.

“No, John, that will have to wait!” There was an excitement in his tone that John hadn’t heard for some time, and he was actually startled to see how much he had missed it. He was not so pleased, when they returned later that night, Sherlock once again melodramatically despondent over a lead turned “infantilely simplistic”, to discover that the milk and meat were still sitting on the floor of their flat.

* * *

Sherlock spent much of their “recuperation” time trying to duplicate the same sensation from that night. Not the adrenaline rush of being in mortal peril, of course; no, that happened regularly enough even after its first appearance. No, he wanted to feel that unspoken connection with John that he had felt, standing next to John’s huddled, resolute form. Wanted to recreate that unwavering *focus* he’d had sitting on the back of the ambulance. Longed to have John’s tired face fill his entire vision, magnetic and puzzling.

He found himself orchestrating moments for their eyes to meet, for them to be well within each other’s space, for Sherlock to be able to analyze John’s face to its minutest detail. That it was unsettling John was obvious, but Sherlock found himself unable to stop. It was a pull not dissimilar to his desire for cocaine: both caused a feeling of undiluted focus, and both caused him to crave, where he was used to abstaining.

Add to that his residual worries for John’s health and safety, and Sherlock found his mood rapidly deteriorating.

It came to a head, finally and mercifully, on an altogether unremarkable day. Laundry day, as it happened. John came in, laundry bags slung over his shoulder, and his face already contorted into a thoroughly unnecessary expression of vexation. Sherlock was disgruntled to find that he found even *that* unutterably affecting.

“Sherlock,” John’s voice rang out, already in high dudgeon, “next time, warn me before you throw your laundry in with mine. I’m not your mum, and I don’t know that I’ll be able to get whatever the hell those stains were out of *my* clothes now.”

 _No great loss._

John was wearing a new jumper today, although it was nigh indistinguishable from any of the myriad other wool sacks John insisted upon not only buying…but _wearing._ It was shapeless and beige. Naturally, John would love it. Sherlock despaired a bit at John’s wardrobe, all jumpers and button downs, checks and beige. Or, if John was feeling particularly ambitious like today, all four at once.

Sherlock suffered himself to pull his thoughts away from the problem at hand.

Only to be faced with the problem at hand.

Sherlock could, on demand and necessity, have analyzed every trace of dirt and moisture on John’s person and announced every activity he had participated in that day, to include the lunch with Sarah that John had so inconsiderately not informed Sherlock of. But, instead, all he could do was focus on the maddeningly multi-colored strands of John’s hair, brushing across his forehead and just beginning to disappear into the collar of his shirt.

It was too much to bear.

Before Sherlock could even analyze the impulse, he found himself crossing the dusky sitting room until he was practically looming over John, hands settled fully over his cheeks.

“Sherlock are you even listening to--what, what? What are you doing?” He stopped once their eyes met and, oh. This was what he had been seeking. Sherlock could stop now, come up with some excuse as to why he needed to analyze the pupils of John’s eyes or some such. But John was leaning forward unconsciously, and stopping while he was ahead wasn’t Sherlock’s style.

It was merely a matter of momentum and leverage to bring their lips together. John’s lips were chapped and rather than being unpleasant, the friction was a delightful scratching sensation. Sherlock rubbed his own against them, changing angles and pressure, judging which ones felt best. He wanted to taste them. So he did. His tongue poked out and ran languorously against John’s lower lip. It tasted like the pesto he’d been eating for lunch; a shameful imitation of Angelo’s. He hadn’t wanted to bring Sarah to a place so very immersed in the two of them. Interesting.

Sherlock could feel the pressure of John’s hands settling at his waist, like John would do to a woman. It was humorous in its own way and Sherlock couldn’t stop from tightening his fingers against John’s face, pulling it in even harder. John’s lips parted, perhaps in protest or perhaps to encourage; Sherlock didn’t care. He moved his tongue into the warmth and was immensely gratified when John met it with his own.

Sherlock was just beginning to enjoy the feel of slight gusts of air from John’s nose against his cheek when a bright, overly cheery voice rang out.

“Sherlock, love. That nice, pretty Sergeant from Scotland Yard is outside. She says she’s to take you to the--Oh! I‘m so sorry, boys. Should I tell her to come back later?” John jumped back from Sherlock with unflattering speed, his flushed cheeks and heavy breathing giving lie to his appearance of reluctance.

“No, Mrs. Hudson. We‘ll be down in a moment.”

* * *

John liked to labor under the delusion that Sherlock was asexual, and Sherlock was happy to let him believe it. Or had been, at any rate. Sherlock was by no means experienced. He had tried it, once, with a fellow student named Victor Trevor, who had been kind and genial and perhaps a bit too dazzled by Sherlock’s genius to truly know him. It  
had been awkward and quick, but no less disappointing when Victor‘s father found out and, in the battle between shallow affection and filial loyalty, Sherlock had been left the loser. The experience of losing and the injury to his pride was not one Sherlock had enjoyed.

There had also been Seb, though that had been nothing more than late night fumblings and sloppy snogs hidden away in the dark corners of Uni, where none could catch beautiful, powerful Seb with the freak. Seb had dictated when and where they would meet, and just how far they would go at any given time. Unused to the idea of being liked, and generally still exploring his own boundaries, Sherlock had agreed to it. For a time. But, Sherlock had never been one to be dictated to, and so he had broken it off, to Seb’s haughty jabs.

Sex was…distracting. Not to mention distastefully messy. He was a healthy adult male; naturally he felt urges, though he never seemed to feel them with the same urgency that others of his age and gender seemed to. Like eating and sleeping, sexual urges were things that could be ignored until they began to interfere with your ability to continue working. A quick hand to himself and it was all resolved. Occasionally, he wondered how much better it would be with a partner, but the thought of nakedness in front of another, of the tiresome, pointless maneuverings it would take to get somebody back to his bed, of the…fluids, just managed to turn him off from the idea.

Growing up, he had assumed that it would just naturally happen. Then, he had begun to assume that it wouldn’t. And then, the idea that it might never, ceased to bother him.

Besides, how many of his cases had stupid, passionate attachments at the heart of them?

Sex was for others. For those that couldn’t control themselves.

Not to say that he didn’t recognize lust when he felt it, nor was he unable to objectively ascertain whether somebody was or wasn’t beautiful, even attractive. But these thoughts were instantly recognized for what they were, analyzed, then immediately disregarded as unimportant.

But, now there was John. Sherlock wanted to know all of John, from his pockmarked cheeks to his no doubt wrinkled bullet scar. Every little flaw that made John Watson unique. Made him interesting.

“John, I think we should talk about this before the appropriate moment is lost,” Sherlock declared, no-nonsense but affable. He did his best to look open and encouraging, but from John’s horrified look, he didn’t think that he had managed it successfully.

“Sherlock, I really think that the appropriate moment is passed,” John began, a wary eye darting to the driver’s seat, where Sally was practically luminescent with irritation.

“Don’t be stupid. I’m sure this can all be talked out rationally and logically. All we need is a little less painful modesty from you.”

“Me?” John responded. “You…” but John didn’t finish the sentence, choosing instead to shake his head and look forward.

“If you’re worried about us acting rashly or imprudently, then we can discuss the pros and cons of the situation. You can even make one of those lists that you so love hiding from me.” John looked comically scandalized, while Sherlock could only feel vague irritation.

As if Sherlock wouldn’t notice John and his obsessive notation. Please.

“Sherlock, this isn’t about pros and cons. I-in fact, this isn’t the right place for this conversation. At all.”

“Well, if you’re not worried about the change in our relationship, then I can only assume it’s anxiety over the realities of homosexual intercourse, which I can assure you--”

John’s shouted, outraged expletive could only have been overpowered by Sally’s accompanying cry of dismayed horror.

* * *

The offices of New Scotland Yard looked much as they had the last time he and John had been there. Much as they had *every* time Sherlock had been there. Too much paper, littered over the same repetitive, characterless, cheap furniture. Sherlock felt depressed and confined just looking at it.

It was with a certain amount of relief that he and John were finally showed to Lestrade’s office. Sally immediately turned and left, which Sherlock was grateful for, but couldn’t understand why she and John had suddenly developed a bizarre aversion to contact, eye or otherwise. It was unimportant, as all things concerning Sally were, and so Sherlock chose to focus on the occupants of the airy, bright office.

Lestrade was looking rumpled and gray as always, but there was a new, bereft sort of tiredness about his eyes now. Obviously not sleeping very much, but not because of any of his cases, for Sherlock surely would have discerned something about it from the papers or the telly. No, something personal was keeping the good Inspector (and Sherlock did think of him as “good”, much in the way he did John) awake at night. Most likely some disciplinary problems with his son, approximately 15 years of age, if the recently handled photograph on Lestrade’s desk was any indicator. Such a trying age, Sherlock remembered. He surprised himself by hoping that Lestrade showed his son the same worn patience that he had with Sherlock during his….difficult periods.

But Lestrade he had seen many times before. What captured Sherlock’s attention this time was the woman who was currently seated in front of the DI’s desk, thin shaking hands grasped tightly around a novelty mug, no doubt offered by Lestrade himself. Coffee, not tea. The bags under her eyes, contrasted by her otherwise perfectly-groomed appearance, suggested she had gotten up early to come here. Most likely had had to travel some distance. Intriguing. Not yet interesting, but certainly on its way.

She was an otherwise normal looking woman. Early to mid-forties. Dark red hair was cropped fashionably close around a refinedly-boned face. Light eyes as well, which made her face, already looking a bit worn with age, look almost…striking. She was dressed professionally, but not stylishly, the cheap fabric a painful slight to Sherlock’s eyes.  
She was, by all measurements, perfectly ordinary, which didn’t at all explain why Lestrade started so visibly when Sherlock had burst through his (perfectly see-through) door. Certainly didn’t explain why Lestrade continued looking nervous even after overcoming his initial surprise.

“Sherlock, I. I didn’t know you were here, yet.”

“Obviously.” Sherlock found himself on edge with wariness. Lestrade’s gormless look, enhanced by the unsettling intensity of the woman’s gaze at Sherlock’s towering form, were not normal. And while *abnormal* was more fun, it could also be dangerous to the unwary. “You called me here. It stands to reason that I would show up eventually.”

“Yeah, I-- Hello, Dr. Watson. You getting on alright?” And now he was avoiding Sherlock’s inquiries. While Sherlock appreciated anybody that appreciated John, it was an irritating (and unsubtle) avoidance, and not at all in keeping with Lestrade’s bulldoggish forthrightness.

“Fine. Thank you, Inspector.” John’s presence made itself known to Sherlock’s immediate left, and Sherlock couldn’t help but want to lean into the warmth. But there were other matters at hand. John would always be there later, this mystery might not.

“Lestrade, I’m not sure why I’m here, or why you simply didn’t call--”

“So, it is you then?” The woman interrupted. Normally, Sherlock would have bristled at such an interruption. An interruption with a ridiculously empty and obvious declaration, at that. But her voice pricked something in Sherlock’s memory. He had heard it before, he thought. Or at least, somebody who had sounded like her. But her voice was smooth and calm, and utterly devoid of context. He turned his attention back to her, peering at her intently as he tried to pinpoint why.

“The inspector said you couldn’t be bothered, but I insisted.” His gaze was clearly unsettling her, and her voice trembled a bit. There, that was more familiar, but still tantalizingly foreign.

“I’m honored you wanted my attention so badly, but I’m a consultant for the police and I don’t really take on individual clients--”

“I had to know,” she interrupted fluidly again, and Sherlock found himself actually unnerved. He had at least placed her accent. Cornish, the Lizard unless he was mistaken. A long way, indeed. She was looking quite painfully resolved, and John, wonderful creature, must have discerned that something wasn’t quite as it should be, for he tensed up quite dramatically, ready for anything. “I had to see what all the fuss was about.”

There was bitterness in her voice, which surprised Sherlock, and Lestrade shifted his eyes away in apparent embarrassment. As if screening people from Sherlock’s personality hadn’t already inured him to such a feeling.

“Sherlock,” he began, hesitantly. “This woman has traveled up from--”

“Cornwall. Yes, I know. Penzance, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Actually, it’s Falmouth.” Sherlock shrugged. Close enough for now.

“And what does a Cornish accountant need with my services?” She started at his declaration, never minding the embossed organizer she had leant against her chair leg, the name of her accounting firm quite visible.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade began again, and Sherlock wished that he would stop beginning every one of his sentences with his name. “This is Miss Lara Tregennis.”

“And? I’m sorry, is that name supposed to be familiar to me?” Sherlock could tell by the wince that overcame John’s face that clearly it *was.* He diverted his eyes to John’s face, thoroughly confused as to why John would just suddenly…shut down as he was, eyes taking on that blank middle stare that so aggravated Sherlock in its blandness.

“It should be,” she stated, her voice trembling with suppressed anger now, instead of intimidation. “I called you. Several times. Very recently, in fact.”

“I’m sorry, I--”

“Sherlock.”

“What?”

“Miss Tregennis was the first hostage to call you. She was the first Pip.”

* * *

It was hard for John to read Sherlock at the best of times, although he supposed that he was one of the few who came closest. But now, it was completely impossible. John was having a hard time figuring out just what to focus on in this whole drama. On one hand, he couldn’t draw his attention from Miss Tregennis. But he also knew that he was casting furtive, worried glances in Sherlock’s direction.

But, if the man was as utterly at a loss as John was, he sure didn’t look it. As it was, he was perched elegantly and effortlessly in one of the uncomfortable chairs, leaning forward with his hands steepled in front of his lips.

Oh God, the last thing he needed right now was to think about Sherlock’s lips.

“I know this is awkward, Mr. Holmes,” Lara was saying, as edgy and taut as John would have expected. He had been a pawn himself and it was still awkward to be around Sherlock; he couldn’t imagine what it would have been like if it had all been for the sake of the vanity of two men he had never even met. It had been a dispiriting and degrading experience as it was.

“I don’t know where else to go, however. I’ve tried the local police, but they wouldn’t listen.”

“They never do.”

‘They’re convinced that I don’t know anything.”

“They always are.”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade interrupted, and John could see Sherlock bow his head a bit, as if actually at a loss as to how to continue.

“Go ahead, Miss Tregennis,” John continued, as Sherlock visibly struggled with how to respond. Her eyes turned towards John, as if noticing him for the first time. She had no idea, no reason to have, how connected they were in this.

“My sister, Brenda, died recently. She lived in Mullion, and we are…were…very close.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” John responded.

“Thank you. She-she died very unexpectedly and under some very strange circumstances.”

“Really?” As expected, whenever words like “strange”, “abnormal” and “horrifying” were being tossed around, Sherlock was suddenly very eager to listen. “Go on,” he prodded, his voice taking on the deep rumble that even now *did* things to John that he didn’t want to speculate on. Particularly not now.

“My sister was the executor of our family’s estate in Mullion.”

“Yet, you reside in Falmouth?” Sherlock interrupted.

“Yes, I got an offer at my firm there and the house…doesn’t hold pleasant memories for me. I was happy to leave executorship to her. But for some time before she died, she was acting…strange.”

“Strange is a very vague term, Miss Tregennis. I’m afraid I can do little with it.” John wanted to reach over and kick Sherlock about the shins. Sherlock might not know the terror of being set upon and manhandled into a van, certainly didn’t know the fear and anger of being restrained, bullied, and terrorized. He couldn’t sympathize with Lara the way John could, but he could at least take this one opportunity to be *decent.*

“She…seemed depressed. She wasn’t sleeping, couldn’t focus, and she said she felt like she was being watched. She said she could feel a presence about her.”

“Did you believe her?”

“She was my sister.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“At first, I didn’t. I thought she was…” John noticed her trailing off uncertainly, not out of embarrassment, but out of fear. One didn’t have to be a Sherlock Holmes to know there was something she wasn’t telling. Still, John found himself feeling a little envious. Would Harry be so persistent about his own death, he wondered. She was a fractious woman, to be sure, but she didn’t have the strength of purpose to see much through, including marriage and sobriety. Surprisingly, Sherlock didn’t press the matter of Miss Tregennis’ hesitation, merely lifted his eyes upward while he rubbed his chin with his steepled hands.

“Well, I thought she was overtired. And perhaps feeling a little lonely. I didn’t visit her as often as I should have.”

“You said that you didn’t believe her at first. What changed?” John tried to steer her thoughts from sibling regrets. He knew from experience that they would do her no good.

“The night she died, I went over to the house. It’s an old thing, lots of windows, a little garden. I was helping her clean the place up a bit, trying to find renters for it, all that. I was trying to get one of the windows open, but it was stuck. While I was trying to get the sash unstuck, I thought I saw…”

“Yes?”

“I thought I saw a man, lurking in the garden, just behind the hedgerow.”

“Did you get a good look at him?”

“No, not particularly. It was dark out by then, and I could just see a bit of shadow against the night. He wasn’t very tall, I know. Or so it seemed.”

“And what was this shadow doing?”

“Nothing. Just…standing there. Watching me. I turned to yell for Brenda, but by the time she got there and we were able to grab some torches, he was gone.”

“Did you ever see anything like it again?”

“No.”

“Did your sister ever mention any similar incidents?”

“No, she only said that she felt like there was somebody out to do her harm. She didn’t mention any particular incident.”

“But this made you change your mind about believing her?”

Lara seemed unhappy with the bald accusation of skepticism in the face of family loyalty, but she answered quickly enough. “Not completely. I thought it was just kids, you know. Bit of a hoodie problem developing down there. But then, a few days later, I was kidnapped from my home. As you know.”

The silence in the room was devastating in its awkwardness. Sherlock’s hands had suddenly fallen into his lap, clenching sullenly while he stared down at the carpet. Lestrade himself had turned away, looking to his desk and scratching his face as if to hide it.

“My sister passed away that night I saw the man. Suddenly. We, we were playing cards. She seemed perfectly alright,” Lara’s voice began to waver, before shattering entirely, as she began to cry a bit. “We were chatting and drinking tea, and everything was fine. I left to go home, and then the next day I got a call from the Inspector. He said she’d killed herself. Just…took a bit of glass from a cup she broke and slit her wrists. But that can’t be.”

“Why not?”

“I had to go identify the body. She had this…look on her face. Like she was petrified. I can't even find words for it. I never said anything at the time, because what else could it have been? But then I was kidnapped, and I knew it had to be something else! But by then we’d already had the inquest. It was considered a suicide, and it was too late to change their minds. “Please, Mr. Holmes, you have to help me! I don’t have anywhere else to go. There’s something going on here, there must be! One sister can’t just suddenly die one day, and then the other be kidnapped the next! There’s somebody behind this.”

John shot a look over to Sherlock. He looked even paler than usual, which was saying something, but he was wearing a highly skeptical look. It was to his credit that he attempted to be kind.

“Miss Tregennis. I am deeply sorry for your loss. Truly. But, the events that happened to you,” and Sherlock at least had the decency to wince as he said it, “were completely separate from anything that happened with your sister.”

“You think it’s a coincidence then, do you?” she flung at him, outraged in her frustration.

John didn’t have to look to know that Sherlock was gritting his teeth in consternation; if there was one thing Sherlock believed in *less* than vague, malevolent presences, it was coincidence.

“I think that the man behind your recent trauma has been identified and is being pursued by all avenues of the law. I doubt that he would bother with your sister.” John could *feel* the muscles in his face grow sore at the embarrassed flinch he just made.

“Bother? He went to a lot of bother with you, didn’t he? Maybe, maybe this is *exactly* like what happened with me. You could at least *look*!”

“We’d be happy to,” John cut in, smoothly and sternly. He flashed her a tired grin of appeasance, more of a twitch than anything else. But, it seemed to do the trick, because Lara Tregennis looked utterly relieved to have somebody on her side.

Sherlock, however, looked furious.

* * *

“What the hell was that all about?” Sherlock demanded as John exited the Scotland Yard lavatory stall.

“Geez, Sherlock!” John jumped. “Please! Do not accost me as I’m coming out of bathroom stalls. Sally already thinks we’re dating as it is.”

“That’s because we are, but that’s not the point!”

“We are no-, wait, what IS your point, then?” John fumbled with the sink faucet as  
Sherlock loomed dangerously close over his shoulder. His angry whisper was sending his breath across John’s ear and hair, and it needed to stop. Immediately.

“Where do you get off agreeing to take on clients when I expressly turn down the idea?”

John could have easily replied that John felt perfectly content taking liberties considering the vast number Sherlock took of John, kissing and groping not even counting. Instead he responded, “What, were you not going to take the case?”

“Ummmm, no. No, I wasn’t,” Sherlock responded with churlish sarcasm.

“What? Why not? It’s got horrifying deaths, bizarre circumstances, and well, the possibility of tracking down Moriarty. We’ve heard nothing from him since that night. I would have thought you’d want to jump on this.” It was meant to be vaguely light-hearted, but John must have completely erred on that, for when he looked up in the bathroom mirror, Sherlock's face had set itself in the most offended of contortions.

“Is that all you think I care about, John?” It wasn’t phrased melodramatically, nor in a wounded tone, but it *was* intent. Was serious. Before, John would have been happy to answer “Uh, yes, actually.” But that was before Sherlock had grabbed at his face and kissed him. Before he had grabbed at a hideous parka and ripped it off his body in panicked anger. Like an inexplicable clue, John couldn’t just ignore these things for the sake of a long-held theory.

John was brave in many ways and, given some time…and some *space*…he could probably muster up the bravery to answer that question dead on. As it was, Sherlock was too close, and John too unsettled by the reminders that Lara Tregennis had brought back.

“So why don’t you want to take this case?”

“Because the woman killed herself. Suicides are not my area of expertise.” John had once, when it had been abominably hot and not even opening the windows could temper the heat, seen Sherlock wearing short sleeves. Needle marks, well on their way to fading, had stood out semaphore bright against Sherlock’s pale skin. John suspected that Sherlock knew more about suicide than he let on.

“Maybe, but you at least owe it to her to look into it.”

“Owe it to her?” John couldn’t believe how Sherlock could adapt a look of genuine confusion so quickly.

“Yes. She was kidnapped, strapped to a bomb, and forced to humiliate herself all because of…” John stopped, knowing that he had already gone too far.

“Because of me?” Sherlock finished, his voice frighteningly flat. “It wasn’t I that did those things. I wasn’t the one who kidnapped her.”

“No, no you weren’t.” But it was because of you, John didn’t say. Couldn’t say, because Sherlock would totally misunderstand. John didn’t blame Sherlock for what happened, because John had walked into the game (and John still shuddered with anger whenever the whole nightmare was referred to as such) with eyes open. He hadn’t seen his own kidnapping coming, but he *should* have. Poor Lara Tregennis couldn’t have. And now it seemed Moriarty wasn’t finished with her. Was no doubt somehow drawing some new intricate, malicious web for Sherlock to half-heartedly protest getting drawn into. It had to stop. Now. Before anybody else got hurt.

“But you still blame me?” Sherlock continued, his body standing utterly still and taut, as if John’s next words might snap him.

“No. No I don’t.”

“Then we tell Miss Tregennis to try elsewhere.”

“No, Sherlock! She’s come for you, to ask you for help. You’re a consulting detective….consult!”

“I help the police when they need my help. Needless to say, it takes up most of my time.”

“And that’s it then? You just use your gifts to show off to the bobbies, then?”

“I highly object to the phrase ‘showing off’, but for the sake of argument, I’ll ignore it. What else were you expecting from me?”

John paused for a moment, unsure how to continue, and frankly not sure if he wanted to. Instead, he pushed away from the sink and walked toward the swinging door.

“Nothing. Never mind.”

Five minutes later, they were back in Lestrade’s office, John feeling inexplicably low, and Sherlock’s fingers tapping an arrhythmic rhythm against each other.

“Miss Tregennis,” Sherlock began, and John couldn’t help but look away from the excited hope on her now composed face. “I’ve consulted with my colleague and it seems like we will be joining you in Mullion.”

John was left with a happy feeling of accomplishment as Lara thanked them both profusely and left them her contact information.

“I knew you couldn’t resist,” John smiled, gazing at Sherlock with what he hoped wasn’t too much embarrassing admiration.

“Oh?”

“The chance to help somebody.” Sherlock scowled mightily at the suggestion as John continued. “And the chance to pursue Moriarty.”

They left the station soon after, Sherlock looking surprisingly dismayed.

* * *

Twenty-seven. No, twenty eight.

Sherlock, despite his surprisingly uneasy state of mind, still managed to observe and count the number of times John shot him worried glances, from leaving Scotland Yard to entering their flat at Baker Street. Sherlock knew he should try to put John’s mind at ease, to explain the reason why he had changed his mind in taking the Tregennis case. Knew that this was what *normal* people did.

But it would be precipitant. There was nothing to be at ease _about_ , if Lara Tregennis’ suspicions proved correct. And as for explaining his reasons… Well, he wouldn’t explain something that he couldn’t swear to being sure of himself. He had been so sure, after all, that simple Jim was gay. Was infatuated. Was unimportant. Had been so sure that night, as John waved off, bundled in his coat and Sherlock’s borrowed scarf, that he would be *safe.* How wrong he had been. How wrong he *could* be. It was a feeling Sherlock disliked intensely.

“I told Miss Tregennis that we would leave tomorrow,” he told John, watching him as he removed his jacket, black giving way to beige. Sense memory of itchy wool under acute fingers began to rise in Sherlock’s mind, and rather than be irritated by the distraction, as he knew he should be, he found himself reaching out to brush his fingers against the knobby fabric. He was only half-surprised when John jumped and then tried to ignore his lack of control.

“I-I’ll go and pack then,” John replied.

“A moment, John,” Sherlock stopped him, letting his hand settle on the crook of John’s elbow, doing his best to ignore the subtle tremor that was beginning to vibrate John’s left arm. The tremor was intermittent, according to medical records and Johns’ own admission, and was gone entirely in the moments preceding pure adrenaline-fueled concentration. In those moments, when John Watson became everything he was supposed to be, he could still his body and take the option he deemed best.

But when John was left without options, felt *cornered* with no possible method of action, it would come back. Be it coming home a wounded soldier with no possible career, or being trapped in a room with a man he knew was determined to force the issue, John’s body gave him away just as easily as his face.

“What is it, Sherlock?” Exasperated. Middle stare over Sherlock’s left shoulder. Lips pursed. Oh yes, John was desperate to get away from him, no matter what form that distance took.

“I believe we have some unfinished business. That we started a couple of hours ago.” Sherlock didn’t like playing coy, but John was looking as though he were about to bolt any second.

“Sherlock, please, I--”

“Is this about Moriarty?” Sherlock interrupted, completely uninterested in hearing any of John’s usual vague protests about “appropriate timing” or “you don’t just *say* things like that.”

“What?!”

“You were gone several hours that night,” Sherlock began, keeping his voice quiet and modulated. “You were alone with him for some of them, presumably. He’s not…a stable man. Now, you’re skittish when I approach you, and when I bring up the topic of physical intimacy you can’t meet my eyes.” Having been caught in the act, John forced himself to meet Sherlock’s eyes, but he was unable to keep the gaze for long. Which was *wrong*. “It’s not an unreasonable conclusion to make.”

“Yeah, maybe not, but you’re still wrong. It happens.”

And it was true, although it seemed like bad form on John’s part to bring it up. But he couldn’t help but remember how *small* John looked that night, the parka and the vest dwarfing him so, and the disgust and barely-held anger that John had had on his face throughout the experience. The way John *flinched* away from Moriarty…

“Stop thinking about it!” John snapped, dragging his arm away from Sherlock’s grip. The friction of wool on flesh left a light stinging sensation against his palm, and Sherlock relished it for the few seconds before it faded.

“If there was some assault on his part, I just feel that I, as a future sexual partner, should know about it…”

“Oh, God!” John naturally chose to be less than rational about the whole thing and instead threw up his hands in an unnecessarily dramatic fashion before pushing past Sherlock and storming up the steps to his room, his tread tellingly uneven.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For notes and disclaimers, see first part.

He and John left Baker Street very early the next morning, silence an uncomfortable buffer between them as Mrs. Hudson instructed them to enjoy their “nice holiday together”, while they took a cab to Paddington station and caught the First Great Western. Sherlock both adored and abhorred trains. The sheer vast number of people about, all with their own tells and traits, gave Sherlock no end of practice for his skills. But this always eventually led to the same disappointment that resulted from realizing that every mother with sick and messy children, every couple heading off for what they thought was a secret rendezvous, every businessman on the verge of financial ruin, had all been seen before by Sherlock. They managed to be both new and old at the same time. It was a malaise-inducing experience, aggravated by the fact that the seats were never large enough to fit his stork-like legs, nor was he permitted to smoke to relieve his irritation.

John, at least, had warmed to him again as the journey proceeded. Sherlock had taken great care in picking out the most average of individuals and relating their life stories to him, an exercise which John always delighted in.

“Yeah, alright, you can *say* that he’s having an affair based on the way his tie is tied, but it’s not like you can prove it. For all I know you’re having me on.”

“Well of course there’s a way. We’ll simply go and ask him.” Sherlock made to stand up, knowing that he wouldn’t have to before John would be giggling and telling him to keep his gob shut before they started a disturbance and were kicked off. It lightened the mood considerably, which surprised Sherlock in how relieved it made him.

“Here, what are you looking at?” John asked, finally comfortable enough to show interest in the folder Sherlock was slowly perusing.

“Crime scene photos and reports,” Sherlock sighed, sliding some of the pictures over to John who took great care to turn toward Sherlock on the bench so as to avoid a fellow passenger inadvertently seeing just what they were so engrossed in. John worried so about these things. It was most endearing. “Lestrade managed to get copies of them from an Inspector Havers. He was apparently the lead for the investigation. Such as it was.”

“You don’t think they paid enough attention to it?”

“Well, they never do. But, on the surface, one can understand why. It seems to be exactly what it appears.”

“But?”

“Hm?” Sherlock was attempting to lean his body back in order to put his hands in front of him. It was a fruitless endeavor and only managed to irritate him further.

“You don’t sound…” Here, John paused. “Well, you don’t sound sure.”

And Sherlock was surprised to realize that John was right. An uncomfortable barrage of possibilities was assaulting his mind, like observations at a crime scene. Only, rather than reinforcing each other to eliminate exigent theories, they all managed to contradict each other. Was it Moriarty? If it wasn’t, then who? If *anyone*? If so, then what was his game? Revisit the victims and threaten them? To what purpose? To demonstrate his power and reach? Or was he once again trying to show Sherlock something that he had missed, some darker crime being passed off as accidental? And if so, was Moriarty the mastermind behind *that* as well? Too many questions. Worse, too many questions before Sherlock had even gotten a chance to see the crime scene.

No, this would not do.

“What do you make of them, John?” Sherlock gestured to the photos of the body. The distant photographs showed a lovely woman, roughly Lara’s age, settled on the ground of what appeared to be a study, if the well worn chair and impractically old furniture was any indicator. There was quite a large blood stain about her, indicating that this was the location where she died. A close up of her wrists showed angry gaping valleys where once they had been smooth.

What was most arresting was her face. On the surface, it was close in age, coloring and facial structure as her sister. But she….well, Lara hadn’t exaggerated when she said that the woman looked terrified. The rictus of death had just preserved a screaming mouth and widened eyes. The effect was nothing less than unsettling. But even underneath that, there was a hint of…exhaustion. Bags under the eyes and hollows in the cheeks spoke of unnatural weight loss. Clearly, the distress she had discussed with her sister had been taking its toll on her for some time.

“Well, I would say cause of death would be exsanguination caused by deep lacerations to the wrist. Cuts on her right fingers indicate that she was gripping the glass very tightly. No hesitation cuts that I can see.”

Sherlock could feel a deep irritation rising in him, at himself and at Lara Tregennis.

“Suicides are hard to deal with,” John stated, apropos of nothing it seemed. “It’s hard, for a family member, to see the reasons behind it. Particularly when they’ve gotten used to not looking.” Sherlock wondered who it was in John’s past that had taken their own life. Or perhaps it was a future worry about Harry, whose bloodshot eyes and jaundice were beginning to show themselves to marked effect on the few occasions that Sherlock had invited himself on the luncheons John pretended were private family affairs.

“If it is indeed a suicide,” Sherlock dismissed, staring out the window of the train. Devon. Woods, trees, gray sky. Spiteful.

“Then you *do* think it‘s murder?” Sherlock didn’t respond. “You agree it might be Moriarty?”

“I think it’s best not to subscribe to any one theory. For all we know, it might be Miss Tregennis herself.”

“Now, hang on…”

“What? You think that just because she drew our attention to it that it makes her in some way incapable of being involved? Give a man a sobbing woman…” Sherlock shook his head in disgust.

“You’ve no reason to think she might be.”

“She was the only one there the night of her sister’s death. *Admitted* that she was there. We have only her word that she went home when Brenda was still alive. It was Lara who mentioned the ‘shadowy figure’” and Sherlock would have used air quotes if they weren’t so jejune, and so let his voice express his disdain for the phrase, “and the only person who could have corroborated her story is dead. Do these not seem like vital facts to you? Add in a convenient kidnapping and nobody would bother to press the matter further.”

“I doubt there was anything *convenient* about it, Sherlock.” And there it was. That tightening of the eyes and lips and the steel in his voice. John was angry at him again.

Poor John, who had been sent to deal with the aftermath of all of Moriarty’s little “puzzles”, and who couldn’t help but feel their own, strange tragedies keenly as well. He managed to find some sympathy with nearly all their misfortunes: a woman left behind as her fiancé arranged secret midnight meetings that could only result in death; a grieving flatmate, choosing to remember the good traits of the stranger she lived with; an unhappy and resentful brother, tired of his sister’s bullying and yet still regretful, even in a ridiculous way, of a bad, unresolved ending between the pair of them. These were the thoughts that clouded John’s mind.

And they were exactly the things that Sherlock couldn’t afford to be distracted by.

“What reason could she *possibly* have to draw attention to a crime she already got away with?”

“Need I remind you that we faced a man who spent a great deal of effort and money doing just that?”

“At *her* expense, as well,” John reminded, shuffling the photos back into their folder. Finding some task to distract from his anger. “She was afraid, Sherlock. Honestly afraid. I heard her voice, same as you.”

“Very well, we’ll operate under the theory, for intellectual purposes only, that she had no idea that she was going to be kidnapped and held hostage. Perhaps the timing, coincidental as it was, ended up being a lucky convenience for her. You know as well as I that, just as bad things happen to good people, they can just as easily happen to bad people.”

“As perpetrated by other bad people, you mean?”

“I’m merely saying that it’s a cardinal error to theorize ahead of the facts. We’re not even there yet.”

“You know what I think?” John said, challenge and tension in his voice.

“Doubtless.” Sherlock didn’t mean for his voice to sound so scathingly dismissive, but John was being *ridiculous* about this whole thing. It was most trying.

“I think you want her to be behind it.”

Sherlock was thoroughly affronted. “I don’t *want* anything besides the truth. And for the path to said truth to be marginally unique,” Sherlock added, self-honesty being, of course, a cardinal virtue.

“I think that you don’t know what to do now that you’ve had to look a victim in the eye and talk with them face to face. Corpses don’t *talk* after all.”

“And they’re becoming more preferable company by the minute!” Sherlock snapped back, immediately embarrassed by his own lack of control.

And once again, they ended up as they started: an uncomfortable silence that managed to drown out the cacophonous chugging of the rails.

* * *

They arrived in Falmouth in the late afternoon, and had to catch yet another bus to Helston, and still yet a cab to get to the bed and breakfast Sherlock had managed to secure reservations at in Mullion. Sherlock generally abhorred bed and breakfasts and the mind-numbing chit chat associated with holiday-takers and tourists. But, as the posters about the village advertising the upcoming village festival alerted Sherlock, there would be very few rooms to be had.

The Tredannick Wollas was an old, stately building, well-kept and whitewashed with a well-maintained garden out front and a flowered pathway leading to a low stone wall and ancient swinging gate. It was disgustingly idyllic.

Sherlock and John were quick to check in as Mary, the bed and breakfast’s doughty owner, babbled about the amenities available. John no doubt suspected Sherlock wasn’t paying attention, but, in truth, Sherlock always made it his habit to analyze not only his whereabouts, but also what the locals *knew* about their whereabouts.

“I’ve just the room for you two,” she responded airily, her accent thick and her gray hair slipping out of its stately bun to fall in her face. “It’s so nice to see a happy couple, after all.” Sherlock thought to correct her; John’s body language thoroughly belied any belief that he was “happy” about anything right then. Sherlock was just signing for his card when all of a sudden John grasped his elbow and hissed at Sherlock.

“Look! Over in the dining room!” Sherlock turned slowly, eyes scanning the overly-cozied room across from the reception desk. There was nobody in it, save for a middle-aged man, thick glasses and heavily stained clothes signaling some sort of severe astigmatism, and a well-built bearded gentleman in his late 40’s, whose well-worn clothes spoke of hard travel, if the self-done repairs were as Sherlock thought. Which they no doubt were.

“Yes?” Sherlock responded impatiently to John’s goggle-eyed stare.

“Don’t you know who tha--Oh never mind. It’s Leon Sterndale!” Sherlock hoped his facial expression was adequate enough to express both his lack of recognition and his lack of interest, because as it was, he hadn’t sufficient words for them.

“Leon Sterndale? From ‘Man on Wilderness?’ His show’s on the telly every Saturday. He’s one of those adventure survivalist types, you know? Goes out to places like, I dunno, Borneo and tries to survive like the natives do.”

“Oh, bless you, love,” Mary interrupted. “Dr. Sterndale is a regular here, born and raised,” she responded, before lowering her voice in a not subtle at all whisper, “But he don’t like people knowing it. He’s a private ’un.” She raised her voice again, chipper to an ear-piercing degree. “But here you go, lads, and I’ll just show you up to your room, shall I?”

The building had three storeys, with their room being on the third. Although the building looked light and airy on the outside, its age and layout couldn’t hide its faults on the inside. The hallways were close and stuffy, and there were windows only at the ends of the halls, giving the walls a much darker, muted hue.

“Well, here you go, lads. Supper’s at 7. I’ll just leave you to it, then,” she said with a giggle and a wink before handing the key off to Sherlock, who then opened the heavy wooden door.

“Oh for goodness’ sake, we’re--” ‘Not gay’, Sherlock’s mind mentally supplied. ‘Or, at least, not THIS gay.’ The overly flowered wallpaper and chintz throws festooned over every available antique surface made Sherlock’s hackles rise. So much so that it took him an unforgivably long moment to realize that John hadn’t finished the sentence. Catching a glance at John’s face in the warped, ostentatious mirror, Sherlock was unaccountably relieved to see hesitation on John’s face; thoughtfulness. That is, until John caught a glimpse of the utterly huge wedding bed dominating the adjoining room. From there it was all smiles for Sherlock, as John assumed a beleaguered face of almost operatic despair. Delightful.

* * *

John could feel Sherlock’s eyes on him as he unpacked his shirts to hang up in the dodgy looking armoire. He was probably assuming too much; there was nothing that said that this case would take more than a few hours to solve. He might just end up having to pack them all up again tonight, though he hoped not. He hadn‘t been to Cornwall since he was a kid on family holiday, and an unexpected allergic reaction on Harry‘s part had cut it short. It had been the last holiday before his mum had died, and it held special memories for him.

Sherlock’s kiss had definitely unnerved him, and Sherlock was no doubt doing his best to analyze and deduce why John was so desperate not to discuss it further. John knew Sherlock liked John’s honesty, his willingness to take all of Sherlock’s forthrightness and meet it with his own. John was disappointed with himself for not being able to do it this time, as well as irritated with Sherlock for expecting it of him. This wasn’t like body parts in the fridge, or texts in the middle of the night. This changed _everything._ And Sherlock, who lived to stir up trouble, wouldn’t be able to understand why John didn’t want to rush into such a venture. Particularly with Sherlock, who was not known for his constancy nor his sensitivity.

Nevertheless, Sherlock was….important to him. He deserved some sort of explanation, even if it was one Sherlock didn’t want to hear. Needlessly smoothing out a wrinkle in one of his shirts hanging already pristinely in the armoire, he struggled to think of how to broach the subject. Struggled so hard, in fact, that he didn’t feel Sherlock’s approach until the man himself had settled himself behind John, hands gripping firmly on John’s hips, just above the waistline of his jeans.

John jumped slightly, preparing himself to spin about.

“No,” Sherlock demanded lightly, stepping forward until his front was just behind John’s back. John could feel his stomach tightening in apprehension but the firm weight on his hips, the warmth at his back, Sherlock’s *smell* stopped any protest that he knew he should make. “I just want to try something.” It was whispered against his nape, and John could feel his hand begin to shake.

Wind-chapped lips touching the side of his neck startled him much more than it should have. It wasn’t hesitant, but it certainly wasn’t aggressive, for which John was thankful. The thought of Sherlock Holmes, closet nympho, just couldn’t be handled. Sherlock’s lips pulled away, only to graze further down his neck, toward John’s collar. Soft exhales could be felt gusting down his shirtfront, and it was more than John could handle.

“I have to use the loo,” John said abruptly and artlessly, feeling like such a *wuss* as Sherlock let him go, trailing his hands along his hips as he pulled away. John nearly sprinted to the adjoined water closet, gasping as he went.

It was a testament as to how long it had been that he was already half hard. But he didn’t dare touch himself with Sherlock in the next room, in the middle of the day. Instead, he breathed, slow and deep, trying to get control on himself.

The worst part was…this wasn’t even a *surprise*. Well, being wanted by Sherlock, yes. But this excitement at being touched by another man? No. He’d known it, ever since he was thirteen and finding excuses for he and Billy Porter to linger on each other’s bodies while playing rugger and footie. But there were other things he’d known, too: knew that his mum was crying every time she and Harry (already 16 and exerting her authority over John) got into another row, which was almost every night those days. Knew that his mum and dad were screaming at her and at each other about lost chances and “phases” and “Oh, Harry, don’t you know what this *means*?” Knew that he, as the son, was expected to carry on the family name, such as it was. Knew that, when Harry ran away one night after being caught with Katie Milner upstairs in her room with both their bras off and half a fifth of whiskey already missing from the open bottle, he became the one source of comfort to his exhausted mother, who wouldn’t last another six months.

Knew that he wanted to be a soldier.

John wasn’t an idiot. Living with a lesbian sister, no matter how much she embraced it, taught him that, just because it was legal, didn’t mean it was accepted. Life would be hard in the army, if he followed that path. It was a profession that attracted the macho and masculine, even if half of it was all talk. Back then, being a soldier was something that John wanted so *badly* that he had been willing to sacrifice that part of himself to see it through. It was in this way that he could understand when Sherlock said he was married to his work. So had John been, in his way.

But apparently Sherlock was as flexible in this resolve as John was turning out to be. John didn’t want to say no, he really didn’t. But things weren’t as simple as Sherlock liked to make them. There were *consequences*, always consequences, for all that Sherlock didn’t think about them.

But hiding in the water closet wasn’t a way to deal with them. Taking a deep breath and adjusting the seam of his jeans to a more comfortable angle, he opened the door and stepped across the threshold. Only to jump back across when he found himself nose to collarbone with Sherlock, who had apparently been standing just outside the door, waiting for John. God, John knew he needed help from the fact that he found it just as endearing as he did unsettling.

“If you’ve finished,” Sherlock said, casting a pointed glare to the clearly untouched toilet and sink, “I think it would be best if we went to the Tregennis house and analyzed the scene. Or what’s left of it, anyway.”

“I…yes.”

* * *

The Tregennis house was exactly as had been described--an old thing. The hedgerow in front was overgrown, the trail overshadowed by bordering shrubbery, the windows dirty and dingy. A coat of paint wouldn’t be amiss; clearly the salty air had done it no favors. Sherlock barely spared these details a glance, however, and powered toward the front door, hands in pockets and back straight. John wasn’t sure if that meant Sherlock was mad at him, or simply focused on the task ahead. Or both.

John was only a step behind him, as Sherlock raised his arm with Lara Tregennis’ loaned key in hand, when the door suddenly flew open from the inside. The perturbed, startled look on Sherlock’s face was worth the small heart attack on John’s part. Lara was standing there, suit traded in for jeans and a thick jumper, eyes bright and hopeful.

“Mr. Holmes, I’m so glad you could make it.” She sounded brighter, her hope so obvious, it hurt John to hear it.

“Miss Tregennis.” Sherlock said, abruptly. “I see you’ve beaten us here. Do you mind if we…” He gestured imperiously with a tilt of his head toward the door. John was often jealous of the thousands of demands Sherlock was able to convey in the smallest of expressions. John wondered how he seemed to have *missed* all these signs that were now suddenly so overwhelming, like a tsunami.

“Of course,” Lara said, sparing a polite nod toward John before stepping aside.

The floors creaked cavernously beneath their feet as Lara showed them about.

“This is the sitting room, but Brenda didn’t ever go in there. Too gloomy, she said.” She pointed to a room on the left side of the narrow, darkly wood-paneled hallway. “This is the dining room and parlor. This is…where they found her.” Sherlock strode straight for the room, completely ignoring the way Lara hovered at the doorway, never breaching the threshold.

“It was here?” Sherlock asked, unerringly finding the large bloodstain still dyeing the old wood floor. He practically threw himself down to the ground, analyzing the old stain.

“When was she found?” Sherlock asked, though John knew that Sherlock had practically memorized the case file on the train ride down.

“Um, around 10 in the morning. Brenda had hired a maid, to help out with the cleaning. The house is such a state right now, she was feeling overwhelmed.” John idly ran a finger along one of the book shelves. There was, indeed, a thick layer of dust coating the surfaces. “The maid had a key and found my sister. Lying there.” Lara had trailed off, staring at where Sherlock was now fiddling with the glasses on the antique sideboard. “It took a little while for the maid to alert the authorities. Apparently, she fainted at the sight of her.”

“Thank you. I’m sorry, do you mind…I’m absolutely parched,” Sherlock suggested, and Lara seemed to grasp the opportunity to leave.

“Curious,” Sherlock said into the silence.

“What is?”

“That Miss Tregennis is so unwilling to be in the house.”

“Well, this is where her sister died. It’s understandable.”

“But look at the state of this house, John. It’s not been cleaned for months. Maybe even years. Dust everywhere, cobwebs, unopened mail from almost a year ago.” Sherlock lifted up one of the envelopes in question for emphasis before tossing it down again. “Lara Tregennis hasn’t been the only one neglecting this place. Even Brenda wasn’t keeping it up while she was alive.”

“Well, her sister said she was under a lot of strain, real or not. It’s understandable that she would let some things slide.”

“Perhaps. But then, why wouldn’t her sister mention it. Or her brother.”

“Brother?”

“The mechanical manuals and men’s magazines on the shelves over there. Not exactly something that Brenda or Lara would be interested in. Yet, they’re relatively recent, and on a shelf taller than either of the sisters. No, at some point, there was a young man living here. More likely a brother. But one who hasn’t contributed to any of the cleaning, nor has the sister. Brenda, for all intents and purposes, was alone.”

“Not exactly unusual in suicides. Perhaps she felt overwhelmed, alone. Took her own life.”

“Arguable,” Sherlock responded, though he didn’t sound particularly attached to the idea.

“You don’t think so?”

“It’s possible. But that makes it difficult to explain this.” Unexpectedly, Sherlock shoved aside one of the antique end tables, thoroughly dislodging several ignored letters. Underneath, John was surprised to find, were deep, rough gouges carved into the wood, as well as a now moldering stain of some yellowish liquid, long gone tacky.

“What the--?”

“Look familiar, John?” And they did. John remembered similar scratches, carving out agonized letters in the form of a name, a message amongst the detritus of an abandoned building and a fresh corpse. There was no message in these scratches, or at least, none that were obvious.

“She scratched the wood with her nails?”

“So it seems. Not the acts of a *peaceful* suicide, it would seem.”

“But you can’t know when those were made. They could have been made *years* ago. I mean, they were *underneath* the table.”

“Precisely,” Sherlock interrupted, delight giving his tone an alarmingly aroused undertone. _Christ, John._ Sherlock dramatically threw back the tails of his coat before squatting before the marks, spreading out his fingers in an attempt to imitate the hands that must have made them. They were very narrow, Sherlock’s long fingers completely dwarfed them. John could still see the rough edges along the valleys, where time and care hadn’t had the chance to smooth them.

“What do you mean?” John asked, squatting to join him, grateful his leg wasn’t choosing today to act up.

“This table was moved to cover up these gouges about 6 weeks ago, more or less.”

“How could you tell?”

“The dust levels. The dust on everything else in the room is roughly a year old, but the dust in the spot where the table *used* to be, is only 6 weeks along.”

“Wait, how could you *possibly* know that?” John was almost afraid to ask.

“I’ve made a study of dust accumulation. Why do you think I was so annoyed with you for moving my skull three months ago? Weeks of observation, wasted.”

“Sorry,” John said, not feeling in the least bit so.

“So then?” Sherlock prompted.

“What? I’m not going to let our home go to sty because you want to literally watch dust grow.”

“No, John!” Sherlock hissed in exasperation. “Look! A table is moved to cover a woman’s pained scratches at the floor. We know she was in physical pain; scratching into the floor, it hurts. We have an old vomit stain, never been cleaned…”

“Good Lord, it *is*!”

“…implying some sort of internal injury or illness, and both have been covered up after her dying moments, but before anybody can be bothered to clean them. If you weren’t trying to hide them, you wouldn’t just leave them there and cover them with a table. So…”

“So somebody was with her when she died. Or came upon her soon after.”

“And didn’t want those that would find her to know what had transpired. Meaning…”

“It was murder,” John finished. Sherlock smiled, captivated by the hint of the grotesque inherent. It shouldn’t be as attractive as it was.

“Do you think she was surprised? Attacked by force?”

“You walked across that hallway. The creaking is practically deafening. No, she wasn’t surprised by anybody. I think the more pertinent question is what is Lara Tregennis doing here?”

“Here in her house, you mean?” John replied dryly.

“I mean, she gave me her key to examine the crime scene, why did she come here first? Particularly when she lives miles away and she’s so uncomfortable being here.”

“She wanted to show you about.”

“Possibly.”

“Or?”

“Or, she forgot something. Something she wanted to hide before I found it. Not these, these were hidden immediately after the murder.”

“For goodness’ sake, Sherlock, WHY would she hire you, if she only wanted to cover up a murder she committed?”

“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time somebody drew attention to an act that would have been in their better interests to keep quiet,” Sherlock responded, giving John a knowing look. John could feel that irritation, low in his belly and rising.

“To what purpose?”

“Well, you said it yourself. She went through hell. Because of me. Perhaps this is…revenge?” Sherlock shrugged, another smooth, economical movement that John secretly envied. It was acts like that that showed just how French Sherlock could be.

“You don’t believe that,” John couldn’t help but respond. He waited for a few moments to see if Sherlock would reply, but he didn’t. That same uncertainty he had spotted in Sherlock on the train had graced his face, visible in the downturn of his lips and eyes. Before John could comment on it, however, the creaking of the floorboards alerted him to the approach of Lara.

They both stood and turned, expecting to see the down spirited form of Lara hovering hesitantly at the doorway. And so she was, only now she was now joined by a middle-aged man, dressed in a rumpled suit and glaring at them severely.

“Here, what do you think you’re on about?” he barked, eyes blazing. Short and heavy about the middle, he was an otherwise handsome man, though his vexation made him look not so much forbidding, but comically irritated.

“Ah,” Sherlock chirped brightly. “You must be Inspector Havers. Don’t bother asking; the suit and the hairstyle are clear as day.” John tried to fight his smile, particularly since Havers appeared less than impressed by Sherlock’s theatrical perspicacity.

“Yeah, that’s right. Miss Tregennis told me you would be coming down. Much as I advised against it,” he stated, glancing to the side at Lara, who was tellingly not looking in return. She had raised a fuss and had grown tired of being ignored. John didn’t profess to be as good a reader of human interaction as Sherlock, but he *knew* people. Just the overly brash tone of Havers and his passive-aggressive assertions told John that he was the sort of man who was very insecure about his position, and he took any questioning of it excessively personally. Clearly, Lara had grown tired of his prickliness.

Sherlock didn’t notice, or chose to ignore, Havers’ statement. “Well, I’m actually glad you’re here. I had a few questions.”

“You can ask what questions you like, but this isn’t a police matter. It’s closed, and I don’t have to answer anything you ask. Make sure you remember that,” he stated, leaning forward in a manner he no doubt felt was assertive.

“Noted,” Sherlock snorted. “Now, what time did the police arrive on scene that morning?”

“Around 11 in the morning. Maid got in at 10, but she fainted for about 20 minutes at the sight.”

“Name?” Sherlock barked, now no longer even looking at Havers, choosing instead to circle the room, eyes roving up and down, left and right.

“What?”

“The maid’s name. What was it?”

“Um, Jenny Lee. Old lass, lives about three miles from here.”

“Very good. Go on.” Havers was torn between a natural instinct to let somebody else take charge, and between his pride. Instinct took over for the moment.

“Maid was out 20 minutes, and then we were called around 11.”

“Why the delay?”

“The doctor was called before we were. Silly bat, couldn’t see that there wasn’t much for Dr. Maugham to do at that point. Thankfully, Dr. Maugham’s got a bit more sense and had Miss Lee call us once she got here.”

“Dr. Maugham was the one who declared her dead, I presume?”

“Yes. And don’t you go bothering her about this. This matter’s done, for all that some like to stir up trouble. It was a suicide. End of story.”

“Is this roughly the way the room was set up when you arrived?” Sherlock ignored Havers’ assertion.

“Er, yes. More or less. I imagine Miss Tregennis has changed a few things after getting the house.”

“Not at all,” she contested, irritated. “I haven’t been able to come into this room at all.”

“Well, then, it’s exactly as it was.”

“So you didn’t do a thorough search of the room, then.”

“Poor woman had clearly killed herself. Wasn’t much point in it, but we checked everything.”

“Ah good, so then you found this then?” Sherlock asked disingenuously, gesturing toward the scratches and vomit stain.

“What’s this?”

“Evidence that Brenda Tregennis’ death was not as peaceful as some would like to maintain.” Off Havers’ unimpressed look, Sherlock sighed and deigned to even roll his eyes. “Claw marks, made from her nails. Made as she lay on this floor in extreme pain. Made as her body betrayed her and she vomited onto the floor. Caused by some internal injury or illness. But, of course, you already discovered this, eh?”

“Those could have been made at any time!” Havers protested, but his voice had become shaky and unsure.

“The dust says otherwise.”

“Dust? What are you talking about?” Sherlock was gearing up to tell him, clearly delighted to have a new audience to inflict his brilliance on, but Havers cut him off abruptly. “I’ve no time for this. This house isn’t a crime scene. As such, Miss Tregennis can invite whomever she likes into it. But, I don’t have to sit here and listen to them. Go on then. Prove me wrong.” Havers turned abruptly and stormed out, leaving Sherlock utterly surprised.

John wasn’t impressed by the deductive or observational skills of DI Havers, but he _would_ say that he would be forever remembered by him as the first DI to walk out on Sherlock Holmes mid-explanation.

* * *

The days were a bit longer now that summer was in full swing, and so John decided to go for a stroll through the village. The sea air was bracing and salty, and the harshly beautiful landscape touched John very deeply. Sherlock didn’t understand the appeal of “scenery”, locations being, to Sherlock at least, mostly similar in appeal from place to place. The people, their movements and motives, were what appealed to Sherlock, and even then only on an intellectual level.

John, however, was finding the quaint seascape surprisingly charming, and the streets of Mullion were filled with purposefully antique facades and decorations. It was, for lack of a better term, alluring. John was glad of the space and the fresh air after leaving the overly dusty and stuffy Tregennis house. Sherlock had barely registered John’s suggestion that he try and track down Dr Maugham to ask some questions, choosing instead to pore over the report copies further back at the bed and breakfast. It was beginning to get late in the day, but hopefully luck would smile on him and Dr. Maugham would still be in. John grabbed a sarnie and ate it as he walked, listening to the distant roar of the sea.

John had to ask for directions to Doctor Maugham’s office, but he managed to find it without too much difficulty. It was a renovated cottage just off the high street, freshly painted and bright, with a spotless sign announcing the practitioner at said property. John walked in through the front door, an old-fashioned bell belatedly announcing his arrival into the cramped but comfy waiting room. There was a mother with her son, about 7 years of age, and an elderly woman arthritically clutching her purse. All the things one would expect to see from a healthy country practice.

All the things John could still have, if he wanted to. But of course, this brought about the unsettling question: *Did* he want to? John was grateful for the distraction of the receptionist--a short, tanned man in his late 30’s, his hair dark and graying at the temples.

“Hello, how can I help you…?” The man trailed off, his face affable, but confused. No doubt the relative size of both the village and the practice meant that they didn’t receive many strange patients.

“Dr John Watson, hello. I was wondering, might I have a word with you? In private?” John cast a nervous glance to the mother, who, in between stroking the hair back from her son’s forehead, was already leaning her head toward them in the way all people did when they were affecting to be unaffected.

“Are you having some sort of ailment? I’ll have to ask you to wait behind the others,” Edmund--the engraved nameplate on the desk informed John-- replied, already looking frazzled and at ends. John didn’t dare wonder how the man responded to *busy* days.

“No, no. Nothing like that. Actually, I’m here as part of a police investigation. I would like to speak to Dr. Maugham about a recent patient of hers.” Edmund looked as disoriented as the mother looked fascinated. John tried his best to keep his voice down to a private whisper, but the size of the sitting room turned waiting room made such efforts completely pointless.

“I’m afraid my sister is with a patient at the moment. What patient are you here about, exactly?”

John leaned forward, until he was practically bent over the desk, an eye warily on the mother who had abandoned all pretense of disinterest and was now looking at John with a gossip’s unsubtle eye.

“I’m here to talk about the recent death of Brenda Tregennis. I understand that she was a patient here?” Edmund’s eyes widened, and his jaw dropped open, though no sound came out. Although, he would not have had a chance to say anything, as, before he could answer, a loud, resounding voice echoed from down the hallway.

“What’s this, then?” A tall, fair woman strode forward, doctor’s coat billowing behind her and her voice deep and demanding: as contrary to her dark, diminutive brother as could be. “Who are you? What are these questions?”

“I’m Dr. John Wat…”

“I don’t care what your name is. Who are you to come here asking questions?”

John did his best, taken aback as he was, to appear non-threatening and appeasing. “I’m here as part of an investigation, looking into the death of a former patient of yours. Brenda Tregennis?”

Dr. Maugham looked down a shockingly sharp nose at him and John was almost mortified to discover that she was actually *taller* than him. She had fair eyes, which were currently narrowed in extreme vexation.

“Yes. Harold called and said you might be coming by.” John was at first confused, but his mind then went immediately to Inspector Havers, the only other one who would know they were coming. Ah, so it was “Harold”, then. If her foreknowledge had been hoped to make her more cooperative, it was a vain hope. Her eyes narrowed even further, and her fists were clenched so tight that John could see the red splotching of tension. Beside her, Edmund gaped, gormless, and John felt an unfair irritation towards the useless slug.

“Asking questions about Brenda? Well, I won’t have it! You can get out and go back to where you came.”

“Doctor, please,” John interrupted, careful to use her title. One thing that living with Sherlock Holmes had taught him was that people tended to be more cooperative when you gave them *titles*. “I was invited by her sister--”

“Oh, her *sister*--” Dr. Maugham spat, clearly not impressed with John’s interruption. “As if her *sister* ever cared a jot about her after moving away. As if her *sister* ever lifted a finger when George and Owen got sick. Wasn’t there for the inquest, and drunk for the funeral, and now *she’s* got doubts about how Brenda died? Well, she can sod off! And so can you, while you’re at it. Get out! Before I call the police!”

Seeing that there would be no reasoning with the woman, John did what any true army man would do and made a strategic retreat. Blushing slightly, and wondering why *everything* that had to do with Sherlock ended up putting John in these ridiculous positions, John strode quickly out the door, eyes not downcast enough to miss the goggle-eyed stare of not only the mother…but the son and old lady now as well.

* * *

Feeling thoroughly emasculated, and worse, unsuccessful, John took the long way back to the bed and breakfast, feeling as though every one of the tourists now crowding the streets, having returned from their seaside hikes and seeking tea, had somehow been witness to the ridiculous scene.

But, if nothing else, it confirmed Sherlock’s theory about additional siblings having lived in the house. John idly wondered what had happened to them. They were becoming increasingly conspicuous by their absence. He mulled over possible theories--dead, moved away, estranged--but found himself unable to come up with any remembered observations that would support or refute any of those theories. Best left to Sherlock, then. Sherlock, who would not be pleased by John’s lack of success.

Dispirited, John found himself back at the bed and breakfast, grateful that his innate sense of direction hadn’t deserted him utterly. Passing an elderly couple maneuvering their rolling luggage up the pathway, John headed inside, grateful for some shelter against the strongly growing wind. He gave a quick flashing smile to Mary, who seemed to have a fondness for short, stocky blonds for all that she believed them to be in a relationship, for she winked back at him saucily.

“Well hullo there! Off enjoying the air? Oh, you’ll love it, I’m sure. Where’s your young man gone off to, then?” An answer didn’t seem to be necessary for her, since she chose to bustle past him, reminding him that she was preparing the tea service and “it’ll be the perfect thing for two young lovers. Nothing so romantic as being cozy!”

It actually DID sound like just the thing, although John was already panicking about how he was going to explain that he and Sherlock _weren’t_ dating, leading to the inevitable question: Well, what are you two, then?

“Oh, Dr. Watson!” John heard his name called, and turned toward the staircase that led upstairs to his room. He hadn’t been planning on going upstairs, embarrassed as he was with his lack of results, and eager to avoid Sherlock’s piercing gaze. He was immensely surprised, and partially terrified, to see Dr. Maugham, now bedecked in a trench coat and scarf, striding toward him.

Girding his loins as best as possible, and further bracing himself for yet *another* public tongue-lashing from the woman, he was surprised when she slowed down her pace to approach him, eyes troubled and perfectly made up lips turned askew in a sheepish grin.

“Dr. Watson, that *was* you. I was afraid I’d missed you entirely.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’d heard from Harold that you were probably staying here, and Mary was kind enough to show me up to your room, but you’d gone and there was no answer.” John was surprised, both at Dr. Maugham’s boldness, and at the fact that Sherlock had, apparently, decided to bugger off somewhere. Without telling John. Again. Never mind that the local DI was clearly unsettled enough to ask around as to where the two interlopers from London were staying.

“Well, no worries. You’ve, uh, you’ve caught me.” John laughed nervously, grateful that the woman seemed to have calmed down since that afternoon.

“I was wondering…” she paused, before setting her mouth into an eager smile, “Would you allow me to apologize for my reaction earlier? It was thoroughly rude and, particularly to you, uncalled for. My brother was quick to scold me on it, and…he was right. Could I buy you some tea?” She gestured, thankfully slowly, toward the dining room, which had yet to fill in for the supper crowd. “Mary makes a real ace tea service, and…I would like to talk to you.”

“After you,” John responded.

After they had received their tea and biscuits, along with a service of some other pastries John was unfamiliar with, but which were undeniably delicious, Dr. Maugham--Frances, she insisted she be called--settled back into her chair, impressive legs crossing in relaxation.

“I really must apologize once again for how I treated you this afternoon. I’m afraid the day was already a disaster, and then I got that call from Harold…”

“You and Inspector Havers are friends, I take it?” John asked, pouring Frances another cup of tea, as his mother had always taught him to.

“Oh, bless you, everybody in this town knows each other and are friends to a certain degree. But yes, Harold was good enough to call me and warn me. He knows how close Brenda and I were. As you can see, I still get very upset about the whole thing.” She looked down and away. She didn’t get teary-eyed, which would have made John even *more* uncomfortable, but it was obvious that she was deeply troubled about her friend’s death.

“How long had you and Brenda known each other?”

“Oh, Lord. At least two years. Since I moved down here with my brother from London. We were never really city people. Always talked about opening up our own country practice and, when my parents died, well…it seemed like the perfect chance. The locals didn’t take to us much at first, but Brenda….Brenda did. She was like that. Always giving people a chance.” The doctor sipped deeply from her tea, clearly relishing the flavor.

“I…” she set her teacup down, but didn’t look up from it. “I was the one they called, you know. The morning she was found. Nothing to be done by that time, of course. But still. Seemed appropriate.”

“Yes, you declared it a likely suicide. As her friend, did you…notice anything? In her behavior before she died, I mean.”

“She had come to me, a few times. She had…a nervous complaint that I was treating her for. She feared the symptoms were getting worse. I was beginning to agree with her. She was always talking about a…presence watching her. Even in her room. She wasn’t sleeping, and hardly ate. I was genuinely worried about her.”

“You thought somebody might be watching her?”

“Tch, oh no,” Frances responded, waving a bold hand in a presumptive dismissive motion. “Brenda hadn’t an enemy in the world. No, I did think that she was working herself into a state, though. Purely psychosomatic, you understand.”

“Yes,” John said lowly. “Yes, I do.”

“Whatever it was that put the idea into her head, she ran with it. I can’t help but wonder if she’d finally gotten enough of it. Killed herself to escape it. Ghastly.”

“What nervous complaint were you treating her for?” John asked, hesitant to interrupt Frances’ distant, regretful stare.

“It’s not really something I feel comfortable discussing,” she hedged, looking about the dining room and the tables within direct earshot. “To be perfectly honest, her complaint was of an anxious nature. Dr. Watson, I’m afraid mental illness runs quite rampant in their family.”

“Oh?” John asked, surprised. Although it began to make certain statements made by both Frances and Lara make sense.

“Yes, her brothers, George and Owen, were diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia at a relatively young age. Both of them. I don’t know the full story, save that Brenda had become their guardian by dint of being eldest, and had cared for them as much as possible. Supposedly, Lara,” and here Frances sneered with distaste, “lived in the house for a time. But it wasn’t too long before she moved away. She said it was to take a job with her firm, but Brenda told me it was due to an argument they’d had.”

“About what?”

“What do family ever argue about, Dr. Watson? Money. Specifically, inheritance money. Brenda was left with a sizable sum to be put toward the care of her brothers, and Lara received none of it. She’s been bitter ever since, you know.”

“No. I didn’t know.”

“Yes, she has. Eventually, the strain of taking care of *two* mentally impaired siblings was too much for Brenda, and she had to have them institutionalized. It broke her heart to do it, I think. She was depressed for some time. That’s when she first came to see me. She seemed to be doing better, though. It was only recently that this nonsense started up about being watched.”

“Perhaps it was more than just nonsense. I…did see the crime scene photos. I saw the look on her face. She looked terrified.”

“She *was* terrified,” Frances stated baldly, giving John a direct, unyielding stare. “She was terrified of ending up like her brothers. Years of dealing with their hallucinations, their self-injuries, their self-centeredness. She was petrified of ending up like them. Of ending up reliant on her sister to take care of her. Of losing her faculties. I can’t say that I blame her,” she responded, shivering a bit at the very idea. John couldn’t help but agree; being dependant and defenseless had seemed a very real outcome upon returning from Afghanistan.

“And now, here Lara is, dragging this all up again.” Frances gave a very curt shake of her head, her lips pursed in ugly distaste. “As if SHE didn’t benefit right down to the ground in all this.”

“How d’you mean?”

“Well, she’s the only heir now. I mean, aside from her brothers. But they’re in no fit state now, are they?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For notes and disclaimers, see first part.

John was still pondering Frances’ words as he trudged up the poky stairs to the third story. She certainly had no love for Lara, and her story did match up with bits of the story Lara *wasn’t* telling. She had made no mention at all of her brothers, and had been extremely wary of the house that she had abandoned to her elder sister. It was possible.

But.

But Lara didn’t *seem* the mercenary sort. Certainly didn’t seem the sort to abandon her siblings and responsibilities. John just couldn’t picture her being anything other than a victim in all this.

 _And that’s where the problem is, isn’t it? You can’t see beyond what she’s shown you._ John could practically hear Sherlock’s voice in his head now. *That* was how bad this whole situation was getting; Sherlock wasn’t only content to take over every portion of John’s home, time, and body. Now, he had to occupy John’s own thoughts. It was maddening, and John resolved within himself to be irritated with Sherlock.

But when John opened the door (which Sherlock forgot to lock, the idiot!) and saw that, as Frances had asserted, there was nobody present, the only thing John could feel was bereft.

God, was this how things were going to be from now on? This endless anxiety? This feeling of nails at his nerves whenever Sherlock was away, only to be magnified when he was actually *there*? To need space to figure out what the problem was, but then finding out that space *was* the problem? If confusion and anxiety had indeed driven Brenda Tregennis to suicide, John was beginning to feel that he could relate.

The room was beginning to feel too close and stuffy, and John longed to open a window, but a steady rain had begun to fall outside, coupled with a fierce wind which would have soaked everything in the room in minutes. Coughing in the close air, John sat down on the intimidatingly large bed, its springs squeaking slightly at his weight.

Sherlock would sleep here. Beside him. They would be sharing body heat in a matter of hours. And maybe some other things, as well.

“Oh God,” John exhaled into the empty room. His head was beginning to feel dizzy and heavy with the thoughts about “wanting” and “not wanting”, and so he resolved to lay down until Sherlock came back.

The action suited the idea, and it wasn’t until several hours later that John woke up, atop the covers, and with night already fallen. He cursed loudly upon looking at the ornate grandfather clock and realizing that it was nearly 11, and he had missed dinner. He automatically reached out for his mobile and, sure enough, there was a text from Sherlock.

 _Am measuring night vision capabilities. Won’t be in til late. -SH._

John typed back rapidly and angrily.

 _Be sure to pick up something to eat! --JW_

As far as messages of romance and intimacy went, John supposed that it was hardly encouraging. There was no telly in the room, unfortunately, and John feared waking up any of the other guests if he tried to sneak out. As if there would be anywhere to go. John hadn’t seen any pubs that looked promising in Mullion.

And so, he found himself doing what any sexually frustrated and confused man with nowhere to go and nothing to do did. Unzipping his trousers and pulling them off, he laid back on the duvet. It was risky, since Sherlock could, conceivably, return at any time. Whether or not it would be a bad thing, John couldn’t decide.

John’s hands were pleasantly warm as he touched himself slowly, using mild pressure. It had been a while. Wanking with Sherlock in the house had been dangerous, even before their new undecided state of affairs. The man had ears like a dog and John had irrationally been afraid to even _think_ about the act with Sherlock within hearing distance. He hadn’t even tried in the recent weeks since the Pool Incident.

Sherlock’s prying question from yesterday popped into John’s mind as he pressed a little harder, still keeping a steady rhythm. The thought of Moriarty could only dampen his mood however.

Sherlock had gotten himself into a state about the idea, and John was at a loss as to how to reassure him. Oh, not that Moriarty hadn’t been the groping and leering kind; he had. John could still--if he wanted, though he surely didn’t--remember the feeling of Moriarty, smelling of expensive cologne and hair product, looming behind him as he stood helpless. John had been afraid to move at all, lest he set off the bomb weighting down his chest.

“Don’t worry, Johnny. Daddy’s expecting company.” The breath of his hateful laughter had tickled against the back of John’s ear. John had felt the itching beneath his skin as Jim’s hand slid up his back, fingernails scraping along the cheap fabric. Had felt the wild helpless urge to turn around and swing for the shit’s face as the hand ascended up into John’s hair, fingers stroking harshly into the scalp.

But John didn’t dare do anything. Instead, he just stood there, staring straight ahead and falling on his army training that had become as much a part of him as his own skin. John’s attempts at ambivalence had only amused Moriarty, however. John had had little warning before Moriarty had leaned forward completely to rest his chin on his shoulder.

“Good boy,” he had smirked. The man had then, quick as a snake, leaned into John’s neck, leaving a mocking kiss. “Stay.” And then had walked off, leaving John helpless and alone until Sherlock showed up.

 _No._ John thought. _Not another moment wasted on him._

John turned his mind to Sherlock instead, trying hard to bring his flatmate’s face into his mind. It wasn’t hard; Sherlock, in some form or another, had been on his mind for quite some time now. The shadows caused by the jutting cheekbones, the curls that ever so perfectly swooped to lay along his forehead, the long, bony, effortlessly graceful fingers. John pictured those fingers, tracing along John’s own face. Sherlock would be inquisitive and intent; no matter how many surprises Sherlock decided to spring on him on this trip, John knew Sherlock in his personality well.

Increasing the pressure on his cock, and adding a quick, sloping twist toward the head, his memory flashed back to just the other morning, with Sherlock’s hands practically fastened to John’s face, lips attacking his own. He hadn’t pulled away, and his mind couldn’t shy away from it now. God, he wanted Sherlock. Wanted him with an intensity that surprised him. John had been in love before, with women who had taken his fancy as easily as men did. Women he could settle down with; have kids, a home, a relationship.

None of those things could ever be applied to Sherlock. The danger, the adrenaline, the feeling of being *useful*, these were the wonderful things that Sherlock had foisted onto John’s colorless life. And John was deeply grateful for it. But along with that came kidnappings, beatings, death. As much as John was driven crazy by Sherlock’s recklessness on the Pips case, he couldn’t pretend that he hadn’t been equally as careless. Had followed along in Sherlock’s wake, confident in Sherlock’s victory. John hadn’t even entertained the thought of Sherlock losing--of even being capable of losing. When the line went dead on a blind, old woman, John had begun to doubt. And if John could doubt Sherlock, what did he have anymore?

Sliding his hand up and down, faster and faster, with the vision of bony fingers tracing at his lips, John realized that there were MANY things that he needed to figure out, before he entrusted himself to the world‘s craziest, most brilliant, most careless man he had ever known.

 _And you invaded Afghanistan._

Coming ended up being an unsatisfactory experience, and John was quick to clean up. Wiping himself down with tissue, he idly wondered if there was anything for his head in his kit as he wandered over to the pastel-colored waste bin by the far window. As he tossed the tissue into the bin spitefully ( _There! Deduce what I’ve been doing without you from that, Sherlock Holmes!_ ) he happened to look through the lace covered window into the street.

And his heart stopped.

Standing there, in the dim light cast by the old streetlamp, prim and perfect as you please, was James Moriarty.

He was even wearing the same suit. Not even a wrinkle in it, as he stood there casually staring up at the window, smirking.

It took a shamefully long moment for John’s heart to start up again and for his stomach to unwind from its violent clench. But once it did, John turned and ran out the room, sliding on the wood floor of the hall and crashing into the adjoining door. He bounced off and nearly killed himself trampling down the stairs as quick as he could.

 _Not this time_ was all he could hear.

John practically exploded out onto the pathway as he ran down it toward the streetlamp. It was only when the sharp, cold rocks dug into his soles as he skidded to a halt did he realize that he wasn’t even wearing shoes, only socks. He paid it no mind as he turned in a circle, looking every way the man could have gone.

Nothing. The street was *empty*. There was no sign that anyone had even been there at all. John found himself peering behind every parked car and down every possible side path in the surrounding houses. He couldn’t have gotten far. He just couldn’t. In John’s panicked memory, he couldn’t recall a car standing by or idling.

“Oh God,” John groaned, clutching at his chest. God, he couldn’t be panicking. Not now. But his heart was pounding painfully hard in his chest, and he could feel that electric tension under his skin, until he practically wanted to sob with it. It was impossible to get sufficient air into his lungs. God, was this how it was going to be until Moriarty was caught? Was just the sight of a man, a *single* man, going to do this to him?

John hadn’t time to contemplate the question before the pressure of a suddenly dropped hand on his shoulder caused him to yell and swing about, his fist already flying.

“John!” Sherlock yelled out, deftly grabbing John’s wrist before it could connect with his face. John had only a moment to be surprised at just how strong Sherlock’s grip was before the man was firing questions at him, his voice fast and nervous.

“John, what’s happened? What are you doing out here like that?”

And it was only then that John noticed that, not only was he not wearing shoes, he wasn’t wearing trousers either. He could only be grateful that he had kept his boxers on.

“Moriarty!” John gasped out, watching as Sherlock’s face went from quizzical to intense.

“What?”

“Moriarty,” John managed to continue between painful, gasping breaths, trying hard to control his hand, now shaking terribly. Sherlock’s own was still wrapped around his wrist, and no doubt the man MUST feel it. “I saw him. Out here.”

“Where?” Sherlock asked, almost sounding indignant in his surprise.

“Over there, by the streetlight.” Casting his eyes about, Sherlock marched over to the exact spot, stooping to take a look at the ground. Biting off one of his gloves, Sherlock ran his fingers across the area of ground. He peered at it a moment, before standing up again slowly.

“John, why don’t you go inside and get warm? I’ll be up momentarily.”

“Sod that!” John bit out, feeling the tremor in his hand ease a bit. Like hell he was going to leave Sherlock out here alone with Moriarty nearby.

“John, you’ll freeze if you stay out here. Go back inside.”

“I won’t!” John shot back, aware that he was sounding irrational and petulant, but unable to stop himself.

“John!” Sherlock wheeled around, until his hands were grasping John’s upper arms. “There’s nobody here.”

“There has to have been. I *saw* him. He was right there!”

“John, look at the ground. Really *look*.” Feeling mulish at Sherlock’s disbelief, John reluctantly allowed himself to be led to the exact spot he’d seen Moriarty. He looked down at the spot.

“Look at the ground. And look at the street. The street is covered in mud from the cars that drove in the rain this evening, but this part of the pavement is only wet. There’s no mud. Anyone who would have been standing here would have had to step into the street and cross the pavement to the lamp. Do you see any footprints?”

 _Only mine,_ John didn’t say, because it only proved Sherlock’s point. John had picked up a bit of mud on his socks and he cold see the hazy imprints he’d left behind on the freshly wet and cleaned cobblestone as he ran about in a panic. Where Moriarty had been standing, there was nothing but pristine pavement.

“I saw him,” John stated, simply because there was nothing else he could think of saying.

“I’m sure,” Sherlock responded, clearly leaving off the “…you believe you did” at the end of it. John was ready to get mad all over again, except that Sherlock’s hand, the still ungloved one, was rubbing up and down John’s bicep. It was soothing and, God help them both, sweet.

“So…unless Moriarty has learned how to hover and/or teleport, I’m completely mental, then?” John hoped it came off as jokingly as he had intended, and Sherlock’s wry grimace told him that he was going to play along as if it were.

It wasn’t until they were both back inside and upstairs in their stuffy room with its comically large bed, that John realized how cold he was. He had grown so acclimated to the chill and damp outside pulling at his bare legs and feet, that the warmth of indoors took him almost painfully by surprise.

“So what were you up to, then?” John asked, desperate to prevent Sherlock from asking any questions about John’s sudden and unexpected turn into lunacy.

“Exactly what I said, John. I went for a walk about town. I was curious what the lighting conditions were like.” Sherlock sounded peeved that John had bothered to ask, which provoked John’s sense of ill-use more easily than it should have done.

“Well,” John began dryly, in a tone he generally reserved only for bullying strangers, “It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve said you were going to do one thing, and then gone and done another.” God, John felt like such a bastard just saying it, but part of him couldn’t help but resent Sherlock for that night. Logically, John knew that Moriarty would have kidnapped John anyway. He had probably had it planned out long before Sherlock had decided to gamble with his life, only to discover that the odds, and the risks, were much higher than anticipated. But even still, if he had just *told* John what he was planning, had included him, they could have arranged things more in their favor. Could have stood side by side, instead of desperately divided across a room from each other.

John glanced up at Sherlock who had silently and completely inconspicuously changed into his pyjamas while John had been sitting on the bed, worrying at his sodden socks. John took a moment to be utterly amazed at this before looking at Sherlock’s face. John, in his already regretted pettiness, had expected to see indignation and petulance. But, instead, Sherlock looked…thoughtful. It instantly worried John; a thoughtful Sherlock was a *thinking* Sherlock. And once Sherlock got to thinking, then God knew where they would end up, and John was already exhausted again, despite his nap.

“I…” Sherlock began, before shaking his head. “Goodnight, John.” With that, Sherlock maneuvered himself onto one side of the mammoth bed, laying on *top* of the covers, rather than on. Yet another quirk of Sherlock’s. John found himself both frustrated and relieved by his avoidance.

“Goodnight, Sherlock.” John was quick in changing into his own pyjamas before rustling under the covers. Sherlock was still awake, he knew, as he put out the lights, because no sooner had John settled than Sherlock’s hand rested lightly on John’s shoulder and his thumb brushed lightly at the hair at the nape of his neck.

And again, he felt unaccountably warm, as if he had been out in the cold so long, that he had grown numb to its painful sensation.

He could have turned and said something. Could have turned and *touched* if he wanted to. But it seemed as if they were both going to exercise their respective paths of avoidance tonight.

* * *

John dreamed that night.

It was vague, and more sensation than narrative.

Unsurprisingly, it reminded John of Moriarty as he snapped awake, sweating and terrified. He barely remembered it; only the feeling of a malevolent pressure at his senses, just out of view, as well as the remembered nausea caused by hot air being chuckled at his neck. John couldn’t even remember if Moriarty *had* been in it after all, but it had certainly featured that feeling of claustrophobia and helplessness that only memories of Moriarty and Afghanistan could inspire.

He lay awake in the pre-dawn still, gasping too quick to be healthy. He drew back on the breathing techniques taught to him by his therapist, and couldn’t help but remember not six months ago; rasping and sobbing in his horrible MOD sponsored dwelling, just counting down the days to…well, even he hadn’t known.

John could feel it now: that hitching in his exhale, the spasming about his ribs that signaled a panic attack oncoming.

“John?” Sherlock blearily questioned to John’s left, startling him. John wanted to speak to him, to tell him to go back to sleep, to ignore him. But he couldn’t get much breath, and if he tried, John feared it would come out sounding like exactly what it was.

Instead, he felt a hand at his face, running a string-callused thumb across his chin.

“Just breathe, John.” Sherlock demanded, sloe-eyed and angular face gazing at him in an analytical manner. “Just breathe.” John reached up and grabbed the fingers at his face. Instead of pushing them away, as he knew would be the smart thing, he curled his own around them, and did just as Sherlock asked. Unquestioning, as always.

* * *

As expected, John woke up feeling less than his best; his eyes were heavy and watery, and his head pounded mercilessly. His sleep had been shallow and restless. So much so, that all it took to wake him up the next morning was the feeling of early morning crisp air tickling across his face.

“Mm, gah…Sherlock?” John knew with a disconnect that comes with extreme exhaustion that he probably sounded thoroughly unintelligible, but had no power fix it. It took longer than it should have for John to track where Sherlock was currently perched, leaning half out the room’s north-facing window. It was only a bit after dawn, and the breeze slipping past Sherlock’s alarmingly thin frame was hitting John full on in the face.

“Go back to sleep, John,” the other man responded, not even turning to look at John. He looked…John wasn’t even sure there was a word for how Sherlock looked. He had already dressed, white shirt simultaneously crisp and casual, in that way that only Sherlock ever managed to accomplish. John only ever felt wrinkled and schlumpy in his. Sherlock’s tousled curls were lifting and falling with the breeze, occasionally brushing into his eyes, which only managed to look greyer when contrasted with his cold-drained paleness. He looked beautiful, in a way that made John’s breath catch painfully inside him. He had never known what it was to *want* something so intensely; and to have so many reasons why it would be *such* a bad idea.

“Sherlock, what are you doing?” He asked instead, because it was _cold._

“Just getting some air. The rooms of Treddanick Wollas are a bit close, I think. Not enough moving space. It’s quite suffocating.”

“That’s what happens when you share a bed with somebody,” John responded, meaning it entirely jokingly. Sherlock didn’t smirk, or laugh. He pulled his head in from the window and turned to stare at John. From the look of him, he hadn’t slept well either. John wasn’t sure how much was because of John’s nightmares, and how much was from Sherlock being unused to sharing a bed with somebody. It took a while, when you were unaccustomed to it, to acclimate yourself to feeling comfortable with the restrained space and the discomfort of jostling and being jostled. As it was, there were dark circles under Sherlock’s eyes, and they were drooping languidly. Sherlock was also clutching at the sill quite severely.

John didn’t like to see him looking that way; felt bad that the one time Sherlock had actively sought sleep, John had managed to ruin it. But, as Sherlock was always saying, it was kinder to be honest about such things now, rather than later.

* * *

They both went down to the dining room, John immediately tucking into some toast and beans, kippers and eggs. Sherlock refrained from anything, instead choosing to take a cup of English Breakfast, most likely only for the pleasure of sneering at it. John filled in Sherlock on his encounter with Dr. Maugham and her subsequent apology, Sherlock chuckling all the while.

“Yeah, shut it, you. The woman was a terror. I doubt you could have done better.”

“Oh?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow challengingly. But, it was bravado; there was a reason Sherlock left the interviewing to John.

“Yeah,” John found himself laughing, the tension from last night evaporating, and this. This was _nice._ Mary interrupted for a few moments, tittering about how she hoped the boys had “enjoyed” the room. John waited for her to leave before turning back to Sherlock, scraping the last of his beans onto his toast.

“Well?”

“Well, I enjoyed the room very much, John. As much as possible when one is surrounded by so much… _flora._ ”

“No, Sherlock. Not the room, what Frances said. About Lara and her brothers. About her possibly being suicidal?”

The ringing of Sherlock’s spoon as it scraped the inside of his tea cup continued for a few moments as Sherlock thought. John found the noise surprisingly grating. He should have been used to discordant noises by now.

“It’s certainly telling. Two siblings in hospital, the other two with a past disagreement between them. Both of whom have not been attending to that house within the last two years. One of whom suspected she was being watched. Lara sees somebody lurking outside the house in the early evening without seeing who--possible, by the way, as I tested last night. They go outside, but don’t find anybody. Later, Lara goes home, and Brenda ends up dead. At some point between dying and being discovered by the maid, somebody chooses to cover up Brenda’s definitely less than painless, and likely less than self-inflicted, death. This is growing more involved than I thought.”

“Do you think it’s him, then?” John asked, drinking the last of his own coffee. “Moriarty?”

Sherlock paused, and took a deep breath. John was struck with the sense of déjà vu. “Perhaps. Perhaps not at an organizational level, but he does seem to be drawing my attention to this for some reason. Something that I’m missing. Some connection.”

They both stood up from their table and walked out of the dining room to the lobby, walking toward the entrance.

“Perhaps somebody hired him to, ya know, get rid of Brenda. Or maybe to give them an idea as to how. Like with Connie Prince?”

“Possible, John, but…” Sherlock didn’t get the chance to finish his thought as they both suddenly became aware of the tall, burly figure of Leon Sterndale barreling toward them.

“You! You great mincing scarecrow of a toff! You Sherlock Holmes?” Sherlock stopped and raised an eyebrow at the larger man’s approach.

“I am.”

“I’ve been told you’re here looking into the Tregennis family!” Sterndale was practically quivering with indignation, dark eyes wide and bloodshot. John wondered if the man were a bit drunk.

“You heard correctly.”

“Listen here. That family has gone through too much these last two years. You be sure to treat them with respect!” Sterndale was gesturing aggressively, and John made to step forward and intervene. Sterndale towered over John, but John could easily duck under an angry man’s instinctive first swing. John was surprised, however, to see Sherlock backing away from the man’s approach. He sidestepped off the path, into the flower beds and the soil patches, Sterndale matching him step for step.

“The police can’t be bothered with them. Why are you suddenly popping up, eh?” Sterndale continued and John realized that his fury wasn’t fueled by anger, but by fear. His indignation was masking anxiety, and that was, as Sherlock would say, interesting.

“I was hired by a private individual to look into the matter,” Sherlock responded, somewhat less than calmly. It was disturbing to hear.

“Look, Mr. Sterndale,” John interrupted, trying to defuse the situation. But the anthropologist was having none of it.

“Tell me who hired you!” he roared directly into Sherlock’s face. It was a testament to how exhausted Sherlock had been by last night that he let Sterndale’s explosion overbalance him backward in his attempt to get away. Sherlock, always preternaturally aware of his surroundings, failed to notice an empty flower pot, the blooms recently transferred into the garden patch, directly behind him. His foot caught at it, knocking it over and splashing last night’s rainwater all over the place. Startled by the unexpected moisture, Sherlock soon followed it, landing arse-first in the mud.

“Sherlock!” John cried out, elbowing Sterndale out of the way to stand between the two of them. Logically, John knew that a trip and fall, no matter how alarmingly unprecedented, couldn’t hurt Sherlock. But Sterndale was in a rage, and Sherlock in a position of disadvantage.

“Look, clear out,” John shouted back at the man, well aware how ridiculous he probably looked. Like a yapping terrier to a mastiff.

Surprisingly, it worked. Either that, or Sterndale recovered his senses enough to realize that he was well on his way to committing assault in front of a score of witnesses, who were now peering excitedly out of the front-facing windows. He stared first at John, then at Holmes.

“Well…mind what I said,” he finished lamely, before turning sharply and storming off from them, toward the High Street.

“What the _hell_ was that all about?” John asked, once the surreality of the event faded from his mind. Turning, he found Sherlock still recumbent, not looking at the retreating Sterndale, nor at John. Was he…embarrassed? John didn’t like to see Sherlock so--he wasn’t made for it--but at the same time, it was…rather endearing.

“Sherlock?” John asked, reaching out a hand to help him up. “Are you alright?”

“The rain, John, the rain!” Sherlock shot his eyes up to John’s, delight shiningly evident.

“What? What are you on about?”

“You weren’t completely wrong last night!”

“About what?” John reached out his hand for Sherlock to lever himself up. With a heave, he pulled the taller man up, Sherlock giving a little delighted leap as punctuation once he was upright.

“About somebody being out there, in the shadows.”

“Moriarty?”

“No. At least, not the man himself. The rain last night ended up being a blessing. It made the ground soft enough for anybody walking outside after it fell to leave footprints behind.” Sherlock dragged him toward where Sherlock had had his tumble.

“Sherlock, I don’t unde-” John trailed off, looking down at what Sherlock was pointing at. There, in the mud, was a trail of footprints, the nearest of which had been filled with the water Sherlock had accidentally tipped over from the pot, making them plain as day.

“The rain made the dirt soggy enough to leave imprints behind, but we know that these must have been made *after* the rain stopped, otherwise they would have already been filled with water.”

“So, that little show back there…you didn’t really trip?”

“John, please. I’m not a man accustomed to being intimidated by others, even those of a larger size. I wanted to see if there would be any remaining footprints from last night. Was going to check for them, in fact, when Sterndale accosted us. I didn’t want him, or anybody else for that matter, to see what I was looking for, so I decided to let him believe he’d bullied me into tripping over myself.”

“So you…weren’t in trouble then?” John asked, telling himself that he was being ridiculous for being disappointed for Sherlock not…what? Swooning over his savior? As it was, Sherlock was crouching next to the shallow prints, muddied arse unrepentantly in the air, using his tape measure (and oh god, where had he gotten _that?_ ) to figure out the dimensions of them.

“Um, no, John. Not in the least. Although, your gestures of chivalry were quite heroic,” Sherlock responded, his voice turning snide and dismissive. _Oh how quaint…for Queen and Country._ John began to turn away in anger, tired of Sherlock and his games, when a long-fingered hand reached out and snatched at John’s trouser leg. John looked down to where the other man was still crouching, but was now looking up at John through the fringe in his eyes. His face was lighter than it had been this morning, but it was still serious.

“Truly, John. Thank you.” Their eyes stayed locked, and John only managed to look away when he realized he was blushing.

He cleared his throat nervously. “You’re welcome.” Sherlock smiled at him, a tight quirking of the left side of his mouth, before turning back to the prints. John waited a few moments patiently before the thought struck him.

“What made you think there would be prints out here?”

“Hm?”

“You said you were going to look and see if there were prints outside the building this morning. If you didn’t think Moriarty was here last night, why bother?”

“Because somebody was trying to get our attention last night.”

Puzzled, John waited until Sherlock had stood up, ineffectually wiping at the mud on his knees, completely ignoring the mud on his bum. “How do you know?”

“Because of these,” Sherlock announced, pulling a gloved hand out of his trouser pocket. He presented John with a small rock, nondescript and ordinary. “I thought I heard something in the night, clicking against the window…”

“You thought?” John interrupted. Sherlock had the best hearing of any man John had ever known.

“I wasn’t sure and I found myself quite exhausted last night, as well as distracted.” John blushed again, but waited patiently for Sherlock to continue. “I checked this morning and, sure enough, there were several stones that had landed on our sill after bouncing off the glass. Somebody was throwing rocks at our window in the night. Trying to get our attention.” Sherlock pointed upwards, and John was unsurprised to see their own window on the third storey overlooking their exact location.

“Why not just come up and knock on the door? Or wait til the morning?”

“Obviously, it was somebody who would be recognized by the guests here. Or the owner. They didn’t want to be seen talking to us. They tried to get our attention, and failed. This morning, I was looking down from our window and calculating the likely trajectory of the stones and surmised that the thrower was standing right about here.” Sherlock gestured unnecessarily at the footprints. “The stone is identical to the stones found here in the garden, so that won’t be of any use in identifying the man.”

“You think it was a man?”

“Statistically more likely, given the dimensions of the prints, although anything’s possible, I suppose. Mr. Sterndale’s appearance not only gave me an excuse to unobtrusively seek out the prints, but also to get a view of *his* shoes, as well, without his noticing.”

“Sterndale was outside our hotel last night?”

“Not at all, John. He wears those shoes until they’re practically rotting off his feet, and yet, if he was outside last night, he chose not to wear them. These are trainer’s prints, less I’m mistaken. Which I doubt.”

“So, we’ve had no less than four people accost us about this matter in the space of a day, then?”

“Yes,” Sherlock announced, grey eyes scanning up and down the street, practically _giddy_ , if Sherlock would ever allow himself to be described as such. _“Wonderful.”_

* * *

“Miss Lee, you worked for Miss Brenda Tregennis, did you not?”

“Yes?”

“That was…not a trick question,” Sherlock scolded, completely ignoring the way the diminutive, elderly Miss Lee was practically shaking in the shabby chair of her tiny sitting room. Sherlock had wasted no time in tracking her down and, using deliberately vague terms and generalities, led her to believe that he was with New Scotland Yard and “very interested” in her actions regarding Miss Tregennis’ death. The poor creature was now practically hyperventilating, clutching in to the very mod-inspired upholstery of her chair.

“Yes, I worked for her. That is, she hired me to come in and clean the house. So she could let it out. For renters and holidayers.”

“How often did you perform such a service for her?” Sherlock continued, taking the opportunity to lean quite dramatically over her.

“Sherlock,” John whispered. He was going to terrify this old woman into a heart attack if he kept this up. But Sherlock ignored him and continued his rapid fire interrogation, his words underlaid with a nervous energy that genuinely worried John.

“Well, I…” Miss Lee paused to think. She was clearly not the brightest woman, and here, in her rundown flat surrounded by rescued furniture and stacks of Cat Fancy magazines, she was a deeply pathetic figure. “I never have.”

Sherlock sighed deeply. “Miss Lee…”

“That is, that day, the day I found her, it was the first time I was supposed to work for her. She contacted me, about…Oh dear, six, maybe seven weeks ago. Asked me if I could come over that Thursday to clean up some of the rooms in the house so as she could let them out. I think she maybe needed the money. Said she hadn’t had the time or energy and now the house was in a state. I said I would, but couldn’t come until late in the morning.”

“When?” Sherlock interrupted, razor sharp. Almost scathing.

“I got there about 10 in the morning. I opened the front door with the key she gave me, and I called out for her.”

“Why? Ten in the morning on a Thursday, why wasn’t she at work?”

“Well, I thought she would be, but her handbag was still there on the table by the door. I thought maybe she had been sick and was staying home. I wasn’t sure if maybe she wanted me to come back another day, if she was sick. I was annoyed, because it would have been better for her to call me ahead of time. Well, I suppose she couldn’t have helped it though, could she?” Lee looked unsure of herself for a moment, and John was instantly reminded of poor, beloved, dotty Mrs. Hudson. That Sherlock didn’t see the resemblance, and instead chose to lean even more aggressively in her space, worried John. “But I suppose it wouldn’t have mattered if she had called me. I’d already been out and about for several hours and I don’t carry a mobile. Can’t figure them out, the bloody things, for all my nephew tries to explain them to me…”

“So the door was locked then? You’re absolutely certain?” Sherlock interrupted, sensing she was about to begin straying from topic.

“Well, yes. I remember because the key got stuck in the door a bit. Had to give it a jiggle. I went inside, called out for her, and noticed her handbag. She didn’t answer, so I decided just to get started. I walked right into…that room. And there she was. Just lying there. Oh! The blood, it was everywhere. I couldn’t take it, and I felt faint. I passed right out, I guess. I woke up about…oh, fifteen minutes later. I wasn’t sure what to do. Was obvious she was dead, poor thing. But I supposed I should call the doctor. I ran to the doctor’s, Frances, told her what happened, and we ran back.”

“Then what happened?” Sherlock asked, eyes rolled up to seemingly stare at the ceiling. John knew from experience that he was simply trying to picture the scene in his mind, but Miss Lee could only stare at him as if she expected him to suddenly attack her.

“Frances came and saw Miss Tregennis, lying there. She got a bit teary, and told me to go call the police. I did, and they showed up a few minutes later. Couldn’t have been more than an hour all told, from when I got there, to when the police started doing their stuff.”

“Miss Lee, did you notice a table, while you were in there? Nineteenth century, mahogany, single drawer?”

“A table?” Miss Lee looked completely surprised by Sherlock’s own abrupt shift in direction. “There’s lots of tables in there. It’s a study, you know. Or so it seemed.”

“Yes, I know, but there was a table in particular. Do you remember where it was?”

“Why, I…no. I can’t say as it struck my mind.”

“No,” Sherlock drawled, angry and sarcastic. “No, it wouldn’t, would it?” And with that, he stood up and stormed out, irritation and impatience following in his wake.

“I-I’m so sorry, Miss Lee,” John soothed, the poor woman looking on the verge of tears. “Thank you for your time.”

John caught up with Sherlock, already halfway toward the intersection, his perfect shoes crunching angrily against the old cobblestones. John shouted out to him, jogging to catch up the rest of the way as Sherlock stopped, but made no effort toward meeting John half way.

“Sherlock, was that really necessary?”

“What?”

“Treating her that way? She was an old woman, she had a poor memory and lots of things on her mind at the time.”

“Which is what makes her, and everybody else for that matter, utterly useless.”

“She’s old, Sherlock.”

“What of it?” Sherlock exploded. Seeing John’s goggle-eyed expression, he continued. “This whole affair is dependant on time, John. Who arrived at that house and altered the scene? Was it before or after the maid arrived? A little care taken to paying attention to her surroundings rather than dithering about with whatever goes through her senile mind…”

“Sherlock!” John yelled, grateful that the street was relatively empty, most of the tourists gone walking along the beaches.

“What?”

“What is _with_ you?” John could see the tremor in Sherlock’s hand, the fidgety agitation in his feet, bouncing Sherlock up and down subtly, like a small child. He didn’t look well, and it was a look John recognized from 6 weeks ago.

“He’s _here_ , John,” Sherlock leaned forward, their noses nearly brushing, eyes bright. It was more attractive than it should have been. “I know it. I can feel it. Not necessarily physically, but his presence is here. He’s somehow involved in this, and I feel as though, if we do this right, we can catch him! Don’t you want that?”

“Sherlock, he’s _dangerous._ He could be waiting, trying to distract you again. Waiting until you’re so invested in this that you don’t see him coming!”

“No, no” Sherlock responded, pulling away from John and pacing back and forth, always coming toward, and then away from, John, his tall figure blocking the bracing wind that was blowing hard into John’s face. “That isn’t his style. He wants a rematch, I just know it. Wants me to solve this. Lara, Brenda…this is all a *game* to him.”

“Yeah, well, it *stops* being a game the second one of you loses. You realize that, right?” Sherlock stopped at John’s irritation. He gazed at John for a few long minutes, and John liked to think that he was remembering the night at the pool, although with Sherlock who *knew*? Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but instead, turned away and began marching back toward the intersection, thoughtful now, instead of impatient.

* * *

John was a little disturbed by Sherlock’s unbearably nervous energy at the idea of being watched and goaded by his arch enemy. Who also happened to be capable of very real violence. John was even more disturbed when Sherlock announced, out of the blue as they were heading back toward the High Street, that he was going to go the library.

To look up some references on Cornish phonology.

“What?!” John had asked, deeply worried.

“Don’t shout, John. The phonology and phonetics of regional dialects has long been a source of interest to me.”

“Since _when_?”

“It’s easier to adopt a regional dialect when you have studied up on the various manifestations of phonetic pronunciation.”

“You _are_ having me on?”

“I’ll see you later, John.” And Sherlock had marched in the opposite direction, leaving a very concerned John behind. Finding himself with nothing to do, John chose to wander down one of the seaside walking paths, down to Mullion Cove. It wasn’t a long walk, and John was thankful that the cold air and terrain didn’t unduly jostle his arm or leg. Feeling the salty breeze against his face, as well as the angry roar of the waves was unexpectedly soothing. He remembered wishing, while in Afghanistan, that he could just go to the sea one more time before he died. The weather was still unseasonably bracing, and the sky overcast, but John found it suiting.

Sherlock had been acting bizarrely all day: angry, aggressive, anxious. He had brushed off his fall in front of Sterndale as totally planned, but John wasn’t so sure. Particularly since Sherlock had begun marching off immediately to interview the maid without thinking to change his muddied trousers. John had had to remind him, at which point Sherlock had sheepishly grinned and marched back upstairs, pride smarting. It was so out of character. Taken with his lack of sleep and his sudden irritation toward potential witnesses, John was beginning to wonder if pursuing Moriarty so soon would be such a good idea after all.

John had been eager for Sherlock to, well, “get back on the horse”, if only to stop his bizarre moods. John couldn’t help but be torn; to get out there, regain confidence, and stop a criminal madman. These were all things that Sherlock needed to do, for himself and for society. But, Moriarty was frighteningly dangerous. John genuinely feared and hated him, as he had feared and hated very few people in his life. To have Sherlock go against him before it was time, while he was distracted and unwell. To _lose_ him, while they were so close to…whatever it was they were moving toward. It was unbearable.

John was beginning to regret interfering at all when Lara first came to them that day.

He spent the rest of the day exploring the area, telling himself he was taking in some sights, rather than waiting to be summoned by Sherlock. He walked along the cliffs, impressed by their stark harshness, as well as their historical significance. It was nice, and helped him to forget his worry for a bit, before he turned and trudged back to the Village, eager for something to eat.

He was heading back toward Treddanick Wollas when he heard the familiar beep from his mobile, indicating a text message.

 _  
Come to Tregennis House immediately.  
Lara just contacted me. Somebody at house.  
-SH  
_

John broke into a sprint, trying to remember how to get back to the house in the falling darkness.

When he arrived, he turned the corner of the hedgerow, only to run directly into a not-nearly-breathless-enough Sherlock, who caught John’s upper arms to keep him from bouncing off.

“Sherlock, what’s happened?”

“Lara Tregennis called me 10 minutes ago,” Sherlock began, turning John toward the house and frog marching him toward the front door. “She said that the man had come back.”

“What?” John asked, but Sherlock didn’t continue, as Lara suddenly appeared at the front door, throwing it open wide and running out to the pair.

“Thank God! I was cleaning up the room, the parlor this time, and I looked out the window, and I saw him again!” She grabbed onto Sherlock’s arm, dragging him toward the house. They were both ushered into the parlor, equally dusty and neglected as the study. “There!” Lara pointed out the window. “I was standing exactly here and I saw him beyond the hedgerow.” It was difficult to see the exact position, as the hedgerow had grown unruly and uneven. There was also a large tree, casting an ominous shadow in the exact spot. From the front window in waning twilight, somebody would have been able to see a figure, although it might be too far off to see particulars.

“Did you recognize him?” Sherlock asked.

“I…He, he seemed familiar, though I couldn’t see his face. I think he must be the same one as before.”

“Or somebody loitering outside your property,” Sherlock responded dismissively.

“He was standing there, looking in. When he realized I’d seen him, he ran off.”

“Did you follow him?” John asked, concerned at the idea of somebody staking out the house for when Lara was coming to visit.

“I thought about it but…well, I’m not as brave as I once was. I called you, instead.”

“Well, he’s long gone! If you’d followed him, maybe you could have discerned something further. As it is, there’s nothing I can do now.”

“Nothing?” Lara responded, confused.

Off her look, Sherlock exploded with irritation. “What is it you want me to do? Question all of Mullion whether or not they’ve been loitering outside your property and why?”

“Sherlock,” John interrupted, vexed. “Lara might not be so eager to run off after somebody who might have been her sister’s killer. Particularly when she was nearly killed herself.” John tried to emphasize the last part a bit, hoping Sherlock would catch on to take it easy. “Try to understand, eh?”

“Why?”

“What?”

“Why should I be understanding about this whole exploit, when you’ve been _wasting my time?_ ”

“Sherlock, what?” John interrupted, but Sherlock shot him a dark glare, before turning back to Lara, once again using his superior height to loom threateningly. Dark anger was pouring off of him. John had never seen him so.

“I’m talking, of course, about your sister’s will.”

“Brenda’s will?”

“I took the liberty of speaking with your sister’s solicitor’s firm today. I was already at the library and the public records office.”

“How did you even know who her solicitor was?” Lara asked.

“You really should go through the mail that’s been left in the study, Miss Tregennis. The truly observant can pick up all _kinds_ of information from the envelopes alone.” And John remembered Sherlock picking up and dropping derelict mail as a gesture to illustrate his point, not more than a day ago.

“Granted, I didn’t present myself exactly truthfully, but they were a wealth of information. Small towns, you know. Most helpful when it comes to gossip. You didn’t know that an alternate version of her will was made, two years ago, in which you were…Cut. Out.”

Lara looked anxious, prevaricating. It was the same expression that seemed to haunt her face whenever she was presented with a direct question. “I thought she might have done, but…then when the will was read it was as it always was. I…don’t understand.”

“Two years ago, you had a falling out with your sister, a falling out which made her so upset that she cut you out of her will, out of connection of guardianship with your brothers.”

“I’m sure I don’t…”

“Was it because you were uncomfortable with caring for your mentally ill brothers?”

“No! That’s not true; I was the one that found the hospital for them in Helston. I visit them every weekend!”

“You suggested the home, even though she was opposed to the idea.” Sherlock intoned, guessing, John could tell. But a guess from Sherlock sounded little different than a proclamation.

“She couldn’t take care of them anymore; she was strained. She couldn’t keep an eye on both of them. She was beginning to get depressed. Then, she started talking nonsense!”

“Then you admit that it wasn’t the care of your brothers, but your affair with Leon Sterndale.”

“Sherlock!” John was stunned, but nowhere near as much as Lara, who was staring at Sherlock, wide-eyed and gaping. The room seemed devoid of air for long moments as Lara recovered herself, Sherlock’s narrowed eyes gauging her reaction all the while.

“H-how did you…”

“As I waited for John, I took the liberty of checking outside, where you told me you’d seen the man. He’d stood in the mud, trying to see over the hedgerow. There’s a shoeprint there that I had an excellent view of this morning. Worn, sturdy walking boots, worn by Leon Sterndale. Why would Leon Sterndale be accosting me about the murder of your sister, and lurking outside her house tonight? He knew your sister was dead, so he was clearly here to see you. Yet, he waited until you weren’t out in public before thinking of approaching you. When he realized he’d been seen by you, he lost his nerve and ran off. If he were simply a friend of yours, or had been having an affair with Brenda, why bother? He would feel perfectly comfortable approaching you in public. Or calling you.”

“Maybe he was coming to break into the house? To tamper with the evidence?” John suggested, not liking Sherlock’s disintegrating mood.

“I’ve also been checking the taping and airing of “Man on Wilderness”. At the time of Brenda’s murder, he was filming in Peru, the date of which coincided with a festival there, which he covered in his documentary. Who you saw the night of your sister’s death couldn’t have been him. Yet, here he is hanging about a town he doesn’t like, and lurking outside of the house now owned by a woman who is the only one who would visit it. But, he’s afraid to approach her, either in public, or in private. Conclusion: you’ve been having an affair with Leon Sterndale, one that you’ve cut off with him, or at the least made clear to him you were uncomfortable pursuing.”

“You’re wrong!”

“And you’re _lying._ ”

“Sherlock!”

“*I* wasn’t the one who broke it off!” Lara yelled. She seemed at first shocked by her outburst, and then relieved. “He did. We both grew up here, but we didn’t start seeing each other until five or six years ago. We were very discreet about it, and we rarely saw each other. He was gone often for his expeditions and filming and promotions. I hesitate to even call it an affair. My sister found out about us. We were stupid one night and I brought him back here, when my family was supposed to be asleep. One of my brothers walked in on us, and in the uproar Brenda found us. She was always so…severe about these types of things.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s married. He kept saying that he would leave his wife, but he never did. He said that she was just a trophy wife, that she was cold and shrewish. But that if he tried to leave her, she’d rake him. Get full custody of his kids. So, I didn’t say anything. Then, my sister found out and started screeching at me, calling me all sorts of names. We…had words. Leon was there to hear them, and then he left. Later, he told me that he couldn’t do it anymore. He said it was because he wanted to make it work with his wife, but…”

“But?”

“But he mentioned once. That somebody knew about us. Had threatened to go to his wife. That somebody was attempting to blackmail him.”

 _Moriarty._

“He wouldn’t say any more on the matter and I…was too angry at him to pursue the matter. Felt it served him right. I’ve only seen him once since. He came back from Borneo, right after Brenda died. When I was recuperating from… Well, he was at the service, which was kind of him. Lord knows he and she weren’t close because of her feelings about us. But I think he came because he knew how hard her death was for me.”

Or perhaps, John speculated as Lara wiped her tearing eyes messily, he came back BEFORE Brenda died. Had words with her. Perhaps *she* was blackmailing him? For money for long term care of brothers? Money was clearly running out. The state of the house and her fervor for fixing it up for rental attested to that.

“But seeing him at the service, I…couldn’t handle it. I got too much in my cups, and I…made a mess of myself at the wake. I’ve not seen him since.”

“And you and your sister eventually reconciled.”

“Yes. George and Owen became intractable, and she couldn’t handle them anymore. I didn’t move back home, but I did help her with getting them placed. Checking on them every week, to make sure they were doing alright. It was hard for her and we became closer during that, particularly when she discovered that Leon deserted me. For the next two years, we…were actually quite happy, even though we didn‘t see each other as often. Except for her…moods.”

Lara was unhappily staring at Sherlock, clearly embarrassed to have revealed her secret to a comparative stranger. A stranger who was now glaring at her with almost hateful disgust.

“Is that what he has on you?”

“What who has on me?”

“Him. Moriarty. Is that who you called to fix things with your sister?”

“Moriarty? Who? What does that have to do with this?” Lara seemed genuinely confused, but John couldn’t be sure.

“Did you contact him somehow? Ask him to fix it so that your sister’s will was changed back to you as sole beneficiary?” Sherlock’s voice was raising, impatient and nearly breaking with tension.

“No!” she shouted.

“Did you ask him to find some way of killing your sister? Or, did *you* kill your sister and ask him to cover it up?”

“Never!” she spat, stepping back as Sherlock stepped forward. The man already had a formidable presence, and John was frightened to see what an emotionless man like Sherlock could do when he was *angry.*

“And now you’ve called us here, wasting our time, and keeping secrets from us? Is that his doing? Lure us down here to distract us while we run around? What’s he planning?!” Sherlock was full shouting now, and had even reached out to grab her arm to compel her. John had reached out to intervene, but it ended up being unnecessary. The echoing sound of a vicious slap across Sherlock’s face rang out and then faded, leaving silence in its wake. Sherlock had the nerve to look shocked, while Lara stood there, breath heaving and her arm frozen by her hip where it had settled on the downswing. They stayed in that tableau for several breathless moments. Lara was first to unfreeze.

“Waste YOUR time?” she hissed out. “What is a couple of days of your time, compared to the *twelve hours* I spent waiting for you? What is my asking you compared to him *threatening* me? If this…Moriarty has some grudge against you, it’s nothing to do with me. Not now, and certainly not *then*. Get out of my house!”

John wasn’t sure whether or not Sherlock would obey. He just stood there, still and with the red imprint of Lara’s hand beginning to show stark against his face. Just as John was about to force the matter, Sherlock gathered his dignity and turned out without another word. John looked to Lara, thought to explain, but knew that he had no explanation to give. He scuttled out after Sherlock, his heavy boots creaking in the entryway as he left.

Sherlock was waiting outside for him, looking pensively at the sky.

“Sherlock?” John called out to him, waiting until Sherlock acknowledged him. “What the hell was all that?”

“She’s lying.”

“Sherlock…”

“She HAS to be,” Sherlock interrupted, tugging his gloves back on with sharp, graceless movements. Totally uncharacteristic. “All evidence points to her. She stands the most to gain, she was there that night, she had the keys to get into the house and cover the evidence and to lock the door behind her when she left for the maid to open the next day. Now her bumbling lover comes forward, panicking about her possible involvement. It all points to her. If only I could figure out HOW.”

“But Sherlock,” John questioned, as they walked back toward their bed and breakfast. “You didn’t have to treat her that way. No, let me finish. If she is involved--if she does have some connection to Moriarty--you can’t lose your calm like that. You’ve got to be in control of this. What’s more, you’ve got to clue me in on these things.”

“Oh?”

“Phonology, Sherlock? You wanted to interview the solicitor and instead of including me, told me you were studying Cornish language roots.”

“Who says I wasn’t?”

“Sherlock, you realize how crazy you sound, don’t you? Even for you?”

“What do you want, John?” Sherlock’s voice was taking on that scathing tone. The one that could do nothing but drip disdain toward its recipient. “You want me to apologize to her? To beg her forgiveness that she was kidnapped? To apologize for her being a simple pawn in a game that’s bigger than she is? To admit that it was my fault?”

“It *is* your fault!” John interrupted, as the anger that had been growing inside him for the last few minutes exploded from within. “You don’t care about the consequences of anything, Sherlock. You just run about, pushing things and people til they won’t be pushed anymore. THAT’s how this whole Moriarty thing started, and now WE have to pay the price for it. And you don’t even care; just keep doing it all over again. You two WERE made for each other.”

John regretted it instantly. Even before Sherlock’s face fell from disdain to shock, and then swung right over into inscrutable. He wanted to speak; to tell Sherlock that he hadn’t meant it, particularly the last bit. But as the moment dragged on and the night fell to full dark, the opportunity passed. As it was, John only found himself saying, “Have you eaten?” John thought Sherlock might refuse to answer, but Sherlock surprised him by simply responding in the negative.

“Well, let’s get you fed then, before you fall over.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For notes and disclaimers, see first part.

They didn’t really speak to each other for the rest of the evening. Sherlock returned to the inn no less frustrated and aggravated than he had been *before* John had foisted a pasty in Sherlock’s direction with a stern reprimand to “Eat.” The only other real breach of their interstitial silence had been upon preparing for bed, John glaring at the single, huge bed with put-upon resignation. It had been a simple, sniping fight wherein Sherlock had declared the odor of lavender sachets and potpourri bowls positively stifling, while John had countered that it was _night in Cornwall_ and therefore the window sash was to be left shut through the night if Sherlock knew what was good for him. Which he didn’t. So there.

With tension hanging even thicker than the scent of mothballs and sage, they had turned out the light and gone to sleep.

Surprisingly, Sherlock dreamt.

He found himself back at Oxford, sequestered in the dark-paneled forest of stacks in the library. As always in dreams, he found himself at an age completely inappropriate for the setting. He was still his current self, only thrust into a place of comforting memory. He was idly flipping through a large book’s old, worn pages, spending a thorough amount of time analyzing each.

“Now, now, Sherlock,” a by now shrilly familiar voice intoned just over his left shoulder, completely out of sight, “Just where do you think this is going to get you?”

Sherlock looked at the book, this time not only seeing, but _observing_ it.

The pages were completely blank.

He wasn’t startled when a hand, rough and square and short-fingered, covered his own, more delicate one as it rubbed across the vellum, looking for _some_ trace of what he must have been reading. He knew whose it was without having to look at it, and it made him almost warmer for it.

The warmth quickly segued into something more familiar. They were still in the Oxford library, hidden in the darkest corners of it. It was the place where he and Victor had first kissed during university, clumsy and awkward and wet. The place was holding no different significance now.

Sherlock knew that this was a dream because, even if he hadn’t known thoroughly that he and John were in no way currently intimate to that degree, the John of his dream didn’t have a scar on his now-revealed shoulder. John was very self-conscious about it, in addition to his already nearly paranoid modesty about dress and undress, and so Sherlock had never seen it. Had he been awake, the incompleteness of this picture would have vexed him horribly. As it was, he was simply dreaming a nice, harmlessly arousing dream.

They kissed, thoroughly but tenderly, hands stroking down nude portions that were hazy and non-specific, and his mind seemed to have skipped over the rest, his body now on top of John’s, thrusting lazily into him. It was a thing of perfection; Sherlock unable to feel the keen awkwardness as he had in most other sexual encounters, and John gasping low and simply with his head thrown back.

But, there, hovering just outside the periphery, was a presence, malicious and invasive. Sherlock turned his head to find himself no longer at the library, but at the pool, only everything seemed awash in a cloying, indefinable darkness. Moriarty was there, hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels, smirking down at them.

He didn’t say anything, which was a small mercy, but rather looked on, not with amusement or even delight.

It was _disdain._

And a sudden, uncontrollable anger seized upon him. How _dare_ he stand in judgment of Sherlock? Threaten him? Play with him? Look down on him?

“Well, there you are then, my dear. We see you at last.” And in Sherlock’s dream his voice was no longer the lilting song-like prosody, but a dark, burning monotone.

And it was only as Sherlock was cast into wakefulness, rock hard and sweating with its abruptness, that he realized he was no longer thrusting, but _pounding_ into John; his moans of pain replacing keens of pleasure, and Sherlock’s fingers on his not intertwined, but pinioning.

* * *

Sherlock couldn’t stay in the same bed as John. Not with his dream still flashing intermittently in his mind’s eye and his cock practically leaking. He bounded from the bed, no less gracefully than he did anything else, and ran into the water closet, not even noticing the chill from the floorboards.

It was painfully quick; three or four rough strokes and he was undone, his teeth wrapped around a flannel and his breath painfully spasmodic.

As he cleaned up after himself in the dim light, he thought that _this_ , this painful, deep pain he felt, was what he should have felt for Lara Tregennis, for that old woman. _This_ was what guilty, dark _shame_ felt like.

* * *

The sudden lack of heat and gain of sheet caused John to rouse groggily from a deep and troubled sleep. Sherlock had left the bed abruptly, like he had forgotten to turn off the stove or something. It was an inapt analogy; Sherlock wouldn’t have moved that fast if he *had* left the stove on.

It was too dark, and John’s head too painful to think much harder on it, and before he could muster the energy to see if Sherlock was alright, the man himself had already left the water closet, shuffling slowly back to the bed.

“What was that all about?”

John didn’t receive a reply as Sherlock settled in beside him, the dark completely obscuring his features. John had given up any expectation of one either, as he slowly felt sleep take him again.

“Do you ever,” Sherlock suddenly murmured, deep baritone rumbling softly and powerfully, “wonder if. If, one day, what you have will stop being enough for you?”

John thought of a hundred instinctual replies from _what do you mean by ‘what you have’?_ and _do you have any idea what time it is?_ to _was this because of what I said today?_ and _I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings._ But, then John truly heard what Sherlock said. Not so much the words, but the tone. It was almost philosophic, which from Sherlock Holmes was as rare as hen’s teeth, and so John decided to respond in kind.

He thought of coming back from Afghanistan. Of living in his cheap lodgings with only the endless drone of days stretching before him. He thought of a pain that wasn’t real, but nonetheless present, that he had truly believed would dog his days for the rest of his life. He thought of how he had had to will himself into waking in the morning, in dressing, eating, brushing his teeth, looking in a mirror. And how it had slowly begun to drive him insane.

And he thought about looking at Sherlock across the breakfast table from him every morning these days. And of his hands resting on John’s shoulders before being swiftly and suddenly withdrawn. Of Sherlock looking at him with intense fear and connection across a chlorine-stenched room before being swiftly covered with calm and reserve.

And he whispered back to the man now already fast asleep again at his side: “Yes.”

* * *

The next morning found Sherlock not having slept, pondering the last few days. Sherlock had always known that he had an obsessive personality. He could hardly escape the fact. And he knew, intellectually, that it led him to be insensitive; could lead him to be cruel, if he thought it would get results. He was an immensely honest individual, to himself and to all others. And so, he had no compunctions in admitting that he did, at times, see Moriarty as his darker self, though the figurativeness of the phrase rankled at him.

But to hear John compare him to the criminal, to honestly believe that they were similar? That _hurt._ The rational part of him knew that acknowledging his own character faults was only fair and self-informed. But there was another part of him that couldn’t bear to have John think of him that way. He had arrogantly believed that he could always push that boundary, toe that line, without ever crossing it. That he could go as far as a person could go in looking into the beast without becoming it. But these last few days had deeply unsettled him. All he could focus on was Moriarty, even beyond his own naturally obsessive nature. Worse, it was causing him to see connections that might not necessarily exist. It was causing him to act utterly irrationally, as his temper flared and his pride hurt. It couldn’t be borne.

He sat there, in the room’s high-backed chair, watching John sleep fitfully. Sherlock hadn’t been able to go back to bed after his dream, and his head felt heavy and congested. He was beginning to feel out of his depth, which was a feeling he couldn’t even wrap his considerable mind around. Would it be wrong to quit now, while he was ahead, if he was so clearly incapable of separating himself from it? The answer came to him before he had even finished the question: No. Even though it was probably the smart thing to do, everything in Sherlock rebelled against giving up. Giving _in._

The soft buzzing of a phone on vibrate interrupted Sherlock’s reverie. He reached into his pocket and pulled it out, looking at the number on the view screen, half expecting it to be blocked.

Instead, it was Lara Tregennis, which surprised Sherlock more than it should have. His eyes widened slightly, before pressing the send button and holding it up to his ear.

“Hello,” his voice rumbled into the phone, deliberately quiet so as to avoid waking John.

“Mr. Holmes?” She didn’t sound angry, but nor did she sound pleased.

“Yes,” Sherlock responded, refraining from pointing out that since she had called his number, it would stand to reason that he would be the one answering.

“Mr. Holmes, I--Could you please meet me at the house? I think I’ve found something you should see.”

“I’ll be right over,” he answered, turning off the phone quietly. He covered his lips with one hand, deliberating. Casting a look at John, lying stiff and pale on the bed, Sherlock decided against waking him. Grabbing his coat, he quietly dashed out the door.

* * *

When Sherlock got to the Tregennis house, Lara was standing out front, arms wrapped around her jumper-clad torso. She was wearing no make-up and her short hair was tousled and Sherlock thought she looked much handsomer that way. She was a woman made to be natural and unfussy. Sherlock could see how such a woman could appeal to a man like Sterndale who, by all accounts, had married a socialite’s daughter. The tabloid photos had shown her botoxed and bedecked in gold and diamonds. Hardly an adventurer’s type.

He approached the front step, but Lara didn’t step aside to let him in the house. Her breath was misting with the early-morning cold. She must have been very uncomfortable standing out in it, and yet she didn’t offer to get in out of the cold to discuss whatever she had called him about.

Point taken.

“Mr. Holmes, thank you for coming,” she said formally, watching him with a wary eye.

“Not a problem,” Sherlock tried to sound untouched, but the long night had left him very exhausted.

“Last night, after you left, I continued with the cleaning. I moved on to the study, and was cleaning out the old fireplace. I was surprised that there was still some old wood and cinders in it.”

“Brenda was not in the habit of lighting a fire at night, then?”

“Not generally. They’re so old, and the flue system is complicated. I know the cinders weren’t there when I was, because I helped to clean it out that night before I left.”

 _Intriguing._

“She started the fire after you left then?”

“She must have.”

“Well, that is very intere--”

“That isn’t all.” Sherlock was momentarily vexed that this was the one woman who kept interrupting him. “I also found this.” She pulled her arm away from her torso and held out a Ziploc bag toward Sherlock. Sherlock hesitantly reached out and took it from her, noting that inside was a section of paper, edges charred and burnt. The paper was yellowed with heat, and Sherlock struggled to read anything on it. Pulling out his lens, he held it up to the paper. All that could be read were the words, “…if you love me, you’ll bu…”. Presumably, “burn this”, but the edges were completely singed.

“Is that all?” Sherlock asked, hiding his excitement.

“Yes.”

“I’ll take my leave then.”

“Thank you.”

Sherlock turned and left, and heard the sound of the door opening and closing again as Lara went back inside.

* * *

Sherlock nearly ran back to Treddanick Wollas, not at all feeling the cold air, though he could see the condensation of his breath. At last, he thought. At last I have the method. He’d stayed up all night, organizing and reorganizing all of the facts, even those he had originally determined to be extraneous. There were things that he had ignored that were now beginning to make much more sense. But motive, opportunity, method; none of that mattered without knowing the HOW. But in his coat pocket, he was beginning to suspect that he knew.

This led to the next rational question of how he was going to test his theory. The smart thing, the _John_ thing, would be to wait and go back to Bart’s. Or, barring that, use their own kitchen, no matter the fuss Mrs. Hudson would make. He entertained the thought for a moment before rejecting it instantly. He didn’t dare leave Mullion now. His presence had made all the players in this drama nervous, and he suspected his continued presence was what was keeping the killer from making any further moves.

There was also the not insubstantial appeal of finding out _now._ Sherlock had ever been an impatient child, and had grown equally so as a man. There was a time for patience, and that time was rapidly coming to an end.

 _It’s no use; I’ll have to risk it._

Sherlock jogged up to the entryway of the bed and breakfast, nearly bowling over a pair of German tourists on their way out. He rattled off a quick apology in German, as he strode into the main lobby. As he walked past the entryway to the dining area, Sherlock’s attention was caught by John’s beige jumper. He must have woken up to find Sherlock gone and decided to grab something to eat. Had just started, if the heap on his plate was any indicator. John was an industrious eater, as bred into him by the army and its lack of interest in lengthy mealtimes. But, on holidays and weekends, John liked to linger and take his time. Sherlock estimated he had about twenty minutes before John would come upstairs. _If_ he came upstairs at all. He might wander off in search of Sherlock, or to apologize to Lara Tregennis. Or to take in the sights again.

Sherlock was momentarily tempted to call out to John and invite him to join him. But, for the first time since meeting John, Sherlock wasn’t sure what John’s answer would be. Wasn’t sure whether John was interested in the possible danger. Wasn’t sure whether Sherlock _wanted_ John to be interested in the danger. He had put John in harm’s way several times already, confident that he would overcome any dangers. But since the pool. Since last night…

He made sure to wait until John had dropped a napkin onto his opposite side before crossing the lobby and heading up the stairs.

* * *

Back in the room, Sherlock had commandeered one of the overly plush armchairs immediately upon entering. Contrarily, he found it *too* comfortable and therefore settled himself at an odd angle atop it, liking the way the strain on his knees and thighs to keep perched made his mind sharp.

Having made his decision, he didn’t feel any compunctions about getting started. He had a limited amount of time, and he had more than his fair share of experience being under the influence of mind-altering substances. Weighing the possible dangers _(one woman already dead, clearly after having experienced potent and possibly painful delusions)_ against the possible results _(understanding how it had happened, understanding the reason why)_ , it was with absolutely no reluctance that he grabbed one of the hatefully pungent potpourri dishes from the bedside. Dumping the dried leaves into the bin, he set it on the ottoman in front of the chair, settling himself onto the very edge of the seat.

He pulled out his lighter, the one he kept just in case, and then the scrap of paper. The one that held all the answers to this puzzle.

In a few minutes…he would _know._

Setting the paper alight and then dropping it to settle into the dusty dish, Sherlock took a moment to delight in the incendiary colors that overtook the rest of the paper. It reminded him of smoking, and he found himself aching for a cigarette. The burning sensation that still hovered at the base of his throat even now.

Sherlock waited impatiently, wondering when the sensation would come. His experimentations with cocaine and morphine had always brought about a near-instantaneous effect. But there was no way of knowing when it came to inhaled fumes, just how quickly they would take effect. He idly made note of the time of lighting the letter remnants in the old potpourri bowl and settled in to wait.

Later on, Sherlock wouldn’t be able to say just how quickly the drug had taken effect, only that it had seemed near instantaneous. The symptoms, once inflicted on his body’s neural processes, took hold with a strength and ferocity he hadn’t predicted. As his whole body spasmed with a sudden, frigid cold, he couldn’t even look at his watch to accurately tell the time. Everything was shaking and vibrating, and he couldn’t tell if it was his wrist or his vision that was causing the distortion. His last clear memory was that he may have underestimated just what he had been dealing with…

* * *

He would try, later, to express to John just what it had felt like. The physical sensations weren’t so difficult: intermittent bouts of extreme hot and cold, violent tremors, nausea, and visual and aural hallucinations. Colors were far too bright and noises far too loud. Loudest of them all was the sound of his own heartbeat, pulsing thunderous and fast in his ears, and beating so, so painfully in his own body, until he had curled into a ball on the floor as everything in him suddenly _hurt._

But these were physical sensations that were easier to explain in objective terms once one had regained some distance. It was everything _else_ that Sherlock couldn’t describe. It was last night’s dream, but magnified an innumerable amount.

There, suffusing his every nerve, was _fear._ God, like what he felt at the pool, but inescapable. It was helplessness, humiliation, terror, and despair. All at once, and with nothing to be done about it. At least at the pool, his mind had been racing, seeking solutions, seeking exits. Seeking John.

God, _John._

And he felt terribly, utterly alone. He was going to die. Alone and afraid. And his fear only mounted until it was all he could feel. He was crying and retching and oh god, his heart was _burning._ All he wanted was to scratch at his own chest, to get it _out._

And there, in the background, somewhere behind him and invisible, he heard that voice. That shrill, lilting voice.

 _There you are at last. My dear._

It was only once the cool air had hit his face, along with water splashed on it did Sherlock become more aware of his surroundings. Everything still hurt, although now his internal and sensory pains were joined by stinging scratch marks on his arms and chest ( _his own, he would later realize_ ), and the feeling of painful pressure on his wrists and abdomen where John Watson was straddling him and keeping him pinned to the floor.

Sherlock’s own violent coughing was keeping him from hearing very well as John removed his hands from Sherlock’s wrists, and moved them to Sherlock’s face to look at his pupils, to check his pulse, to just _touch_ him in relief. But even over his own loud wheezing, he was pretty sure he could still hear John.

“You great, bloody _idiot_!”

* * *

“Tell me again why you thought this would be a good idea?” John’s voice managed to go from being clipped and curt, to hurt, to furiously angry, and then back again, with a speed that was actually quite alarming.

“I…” Sherlock coughed again, his throat dry from the last hour of recuperation, no matter how much water John pressed on him. “I had to know. Had to know what it was that Brenda Tregennis had experience that night.”

“Sherlock, what on *Earth* are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the letter, John. The one Brenda burned in the fireplace the night she died. It was the only variable that I’ve come across that could have affected her.”

“And so you thought it would be a good idea to test that theory, did you?” John’s hands were shaking, so badly. Even worse than usual. It touched Sherlock very deeply, wrapped in the duvet as he was, wearing only his trousers, as his shirt had been removed hastily upon discovering it was covered in his own sick. It touched him, and made him so very infinitely sad. Sherlock had always prided himself on being the cure for John’s nerves, had arrogantly boasted, even if only to himself, that *he* had solved a problem even a therapist and a team of doctors couldn’t solve. Now here he was, only having made it worse.

Sherlock didn’t say anything for a very long moment. Couldn’t. John had adopted a posture so painfully stiff, one hand on his hip and the other braced against the bed, as he stared at Sherlock with an expression Sherlock hadn’t seen in some 6 weeks.

At the pool.

That feeling of shame that had arisen so abruptly the other night, rusty and out of practice that he was with it, hit him now, even stronger. John looked as resigned and trapped as he had with Moriarty, and Sherlock knew that this time, there was no one to blame but himself. He had brought John to this. He and nobody else. God, was *this* what people felt, right after they’d destroyed something they’d loved? Murdered it and desecrated it? Was *this* what Sherlock had disdained all this time? He hadn’t realized, just how thoroughly he could destroy somebody he loved; just as thoroughly as a butcher’s son in Belarus could. It was a power both toxic and intoxicating. He knew he should lie to John, if he wanted to relieve him. He really did know that.

But, he couldn’t.

“Yes. I did. It was an as yet undiscovered narcotic…”

“Oh, Christ,” John gasped out, exasperated, as he ran a shaking hand over his face to settle around his jaw.

“…Whose effects I couldn’t prove. I had to know. In order to prove this, I had to know. Do you understand that, John?”

“I understand,” John began, nodding in that passively aggressive way he had when he was pretending to agree with Sherlock, while at the same time, obviously not. “I understand that you get your kicks endangering yourself. That you…I dunno, can’t stand to not be stimulated for any length of time. But this….Sherlock, this isn’t right. What would I…”

And here it was. The moment at last. Sherlock couldn’t help but lean forward, eyes intently set on John, challenging him. _Don’t back down, John. Let’s have this out, once and for all._ And for the first time since Sherlock had first kissed John with meticulously planned impulse, John met his eyes square on and leaned *toward* Sherlock.

“What would I have done _without you_?”

“John…”

“No, you listen to *me* now. Why must you always, _always_ , be running off, making plans behind my back? Why do you insist on believing that you’re alone in this? This, today, this hasn’t been the first time, but it was the worst. Don’t you understand? I’m in this with you. No matter what. I would have been in this with you against Moriarty. I would, God help me, have been in this with you, in this *insane* experimentation, today. But this? This running around experimenting with life, human lives, most particularly…your _own_ , without filling me in. This can’t happen anymore.”

Sherlock sat in shaking, shuddering silence for a long few moments as John caught his breath.

“You’re right,” Sherlock replied. And then leaned up and in and kissed him.

* * *

Sherlock, in a moment of lust-induced inanity, found himself congratulating himself as he finally got a chance to see John’s scar, wrinkled and ugly and perfect. It was smaller than Sherlock had thought, as he lightly flicked his tongue against it. As he pulled away and up, lifting himself with his hands from where he was laying half atop John, he could see John looking at him with narrowed eyes. It *was* an unusual fixation, he supposed.

He leaned his head forward a bit, John meeting him halfway. John’s lips weren’t chapped today, only smooth, and Sherlock was delighted to discover that this presented all new sensations and angles. They wrestled around on the bed a bit, awkwardly trying to remove each other’s clothes simultaneously. John didn’t like to be held down, as it turned out, but he didn’t seem to mind Sherlock’s weight settling lightly across his hips. John was heavier than Sherlock and neither were sure what the best arrangement would be.

Rocking hesitantly into John’s pelvis, half-hard cocks rubbing against each other with a delightfully tickling pressure, Sherlock thought that _this_ could work. He leaned forward, nipping at John’s lower lip. John, whose head was thrown back a bit against the pillow with eyes closed, took the hint and opened his mouth again. He accepted Sherlock’s lips and tongue for a time, running his hands up and down Sherlock’s arms and then his sides. John was grunting now, and it was unbearably arousing. He was normally so quiet. So restrained. Only on Sherlock’s cases did John show his unfettered side, and to see it here and now, it reassured Sherlock that he would never grow tired of it.

Sherlock would never get enough, because that was in his nature.

But John could never stop giving enough, because that was in _his_ nature.

John would take everything Sherlock would throw at him and Sherlock knew, as broad tanned fingers clenched painfully into his hips and adjusted the angle at which Sherlock was thrusting, that this was a feeling he had never experienced before.

He was looking forward to exploring it much further.

It was an anticipation he hadn’t experienced since first receiving a pink phone and a photo message.

The friction was turning a bit awkward. Their pre-come was lubricating their motions sufficiently, but it wasn’t as efficient as it could be. Mentally reviewing the contents of their bag, he could think of nothing that would work in a pinch. Pulling away from John, who whined delightfully, Sherlock shimmied down the bed a ways, John’s dilated eyes on him the entire time.

Taking John’s cock into his mouth, Sherlock lowered his mouth slowly along the shaft, massaging the bits he could reach of it with his tongue. He sucked lightly, gauging his response from John’s resultant moan. He pulled away, being sure to lick a stripe along the bottom and circle the head.

“God, Sherlock,” John gasped, voice high and thready, not unlike his giggle. Sherlock moved back up John’s body, sliding his cock along John’s wet one. It wasn’t ideal, but it would do. Fitting his lips against John’s, he began the rhythm yet again, pushing and pushing and _pushing._

Their rhythm was growing broken and desperate, and Sherlock was worried about the amount of time it was taking. So worried, that he completely missed John’s probing finger reaching to circle his anus. The sensation was electrifying in its unexpectedness, and it wasn’t much longer before Sherlock was coming. Well aware that his face was no doubt in a ludicrous expression, he kept pushing, hopeful that John wouldn’t be far behind.

Sherlock rolled off of John, breath shaky and shallow, hips still twitching a bit. He and John were side by side, and poor John was still achingly hard, but waiting patiently. Reaching out a shaky hand to his right, he settled it on John’s cock. John’s own hand wrapped around his own, and Sherlock permitted himself a maudlin moment to admire the contrast between pale and tawny.

The angle was easier on Sherlock’s wrist, and he found enough energy to give John a few more pressured strokes. Watching John’s face carefully as he tumbled over, eyes closed and mouth slack, was one of the last sights as he drifted off into an exhausted sleep.

* * *

John woke up again much later, mid-afternoon at a guess. The sheets were rucked down to the foot of the bed and John and Sherlock both were covered with spunk and bruises. Sherlock’s hair was as bedraggled as John had ever seen it and John could only imagine his was equally as bad. The man himself was currently propped up on an elbow staring down at John as he woke.

“Have you been watching me sleep?”

“Maybe,” Sherlock hedged, lifting his free hand to settle on John’s chest and drift upward til his fingers dragged over John’s nipple. John couldn’t help shivering at it and Sherlock, taking it for the clue it was, leaned down to bite at it, suckling lightly. John arched a bit in response.

“God, Sherlock. I’m nearly 40. I don’t think I have another round in me.”

“That’s alright. You’ll simply have to owe me one once we get back to Baker Street.”

“Done,” John laughed lightly, giving a full body stretch. Despite his words, Sherlock had begun nipping at his neck again, up to his ear. John flailed his hand out, until it rested on Sherlock’s hip.

“So, besides nearly getting yourself killed and sex, what else did you have planned for today?” Sherlock’s tongue flicked lightly along his upper ear, which was a particularly erogenous zone. John rewarded him by shuddering against him.

“I had some ideas about exposing a murderer today. And then, leaving this place and going home to London. And then, taking you over every surface I can think of.”

“Sounds like a plan, although I’ll be sad to leave a town where everybody seems to be in the habit of lurking in hedgerows or accosting strangers angrily in public.”

Sherlock found himself laughing out loud at that, drowning in John’s responding giggle. “Oh God, I’m happy,” Sherlock responded, startled to find he meant it, and not pleased about it.

“Well, you needn’t sound so put out about it.”

“I‘ve no time for happiness. Not right now, at any rate,” Sherlock responded, pulling away. Rather than angry, John looked wryly amused.

“Right. Murderer now, sex later.”

“Glad you understand me, Dr. Watson.”

* * *

John was finishing putting on his jumper, when Sherlock strode out of the loo. At first, John had thought about changing jumpers to something with a higher collar. Sherlock had practically mauled his neck that morning.

No, he thought. This is my choice. We’ve made it now. I’ve shown my hand.

“So, where are we going?” John asked into the mirror, watching Sherlock in its reflection.

“I’ve taken the liberty of inviting Dr. Maugham and Inspector Havers to the Tregennis house tonight, along with Miss Tregennis and Leon Sterndale. It reeks of detective novel grandeur, but I suspect that having them all present would be the best idea. For safety, if nothing else.”

“Fair enough.”

* * *

Sherlock was right; it DID have the feel of the climax of some Agatha Christie novel. John had to wryly resist the urge to ask if anybody wanted drinks while they waited. When everybody had arrived and were settled into the study where Brenda Tregennis had died, Sherlock began. Although, surprisingly, he started with Frances.

“I’m so glad you decided to come.”

Startled, she gathered herself before responding. “Well, yes. Anything for Brenda.”

“I’ve also invited Edmund Maugham along, although I doubted he’d come. And he hasn‘t, I see.”

“Why wouldn‘t he come?” she asked.

“Because,” Sherlock responded, speaking to the whole room, now, and not just Frances. “Inspector Havers and Frances Maugham are involved in an ongoing romantic entanglement. I saw them the other night, while I was first scouting the area. They were having dinner, and then he walked her home. And then went inside with her.”

John, who had suspected as much all along, responded, “So? What’s the matter with that?”

“Granted, I am less experienced in the world of relationships, but I would still imagine that her husband might have some objection to that.”

The room froze, all the occupants staring at Sherlock who was, in his turn, locking eyes with those of Frances. She was, if John had to pick a word, pissed. “What?”

“Edmund Maugham and Frances Maugham are not brother and sister, but husband and wife.”

“That’s impossible,” Havers stuttered, looking back and forth between the pair.

“It isn’t. Dr. Maugham made the mistake of telling my colleague Dr. Watson a bit of truth about herself. That she had come to Mullion from London after her parents had died. Well, that was true. What she neglected to mention was that the reason she had left was because she and her husband had been accused of killing them.”

John watched Frances’ face. It had turned to that stony rage that John had remembered upon first meeting her.

“As Brenda’s doctor, as well as the doctor first present on the scene, I naturally checked into her history. Dr. Maugham has a lengthy list of complaints filed against her, although none have led to criminal prosecution. You see, Dr. Maugham has gotten into the habit of befriending her patients, most particularly the dying, elderly, and severely ailing. She ingratiates herself to them, befriends them, and, eventually, she is made a beneficiary in their will. Nothing grossly inappropriate, although her victims are certainly never poor. Just enough to seem like gratitude toward a loyal family doctor. But then, around two years go, her parents died of an overdose of a medication that should never have been prescribed and she came to the attention of the police.

They weren’t able to prove anything, but you decided that it would be best for you to leave London, where none could be suspicious of you. And there, you met Brenda, who was stressed, depressed, and lonely. You became friends with her immediately, particularly after learning that her only family was two mentally ill brothers and a sister she no longer talked to. It seemed perfect, didn’t it?”

Sherlock began to move toward Frances, hands clasped behind his back and shoulders thrown back. Cocky.

“You became her friend, listened to her talk about her brothers, gave her your medical advice. I bet you even promised that, if anything happened to her, you’d be happy to take care of her brothers. Help get them committed to a hospital when the time came. But you didn’t know that all that while, Lara and Brenda were reconciling. Were putting the past behind them.”

John inched along the wall, just out of Frances’ periphery line of sight, keeping an eye on her face, which was growing more hateful by the second.

“Brenda mentioned to you, didn’t she, that she had put you on the old will as executor and guardian. And you realized that your time had come. But how to do it?” Sherlock looked up briefly at the ceiling, as if he were truly asking the question.

“It couldn’t be anything medicinal. You’re already on the watch list, another suspicious death would be the end of you. No, you needed something subtler. When Brenda mentioned the reason behind her and Lara’s falling out, you discovered that it was because of her affair with Leon Sterndale. Isn’t that right?”

Lara tilted her head to the side, confrontationally, and John thought that she wouldn’t respond at all. He started when she suddenly laughed and shook her head manically. “When you’re right, you’re right, Mr. Holmes. I found out that they were fucking under her very roof, and that Brenda had tossed the slut out because of it. Seemed a good idea to get some money out of it. I met Leon, here, one day out on the High Street. Told him I knew what he and Lara had gotten up to and wouldn’t it be terrible if I wrote his wife a letter about it? He seemed to think so,” she laughed, nearly unhinged, and shot a look at Leon.

“Oh, but don’t look so innocent, you,” she called out to him. “I went over one night to his house, to pick up my money. He was disgustingly high. And drunk. I asked him what he could possibly have been smoking to get him that trashed. And,” she giggled obscenely, reminding John strongly of Moriarty. “He told me! Some root he’d found cavorting with the natives out in Borneo or what have you. Said it was a magnificent high when smoked or ingested. Said it could kill you if you weren’t too careful. So, I waited til he’d passed out, like the useless drunk he is, and I took it. All of it.”

John and Sherlock looked to Leon as one. He was standing there, unwittingly having moved to stand by Lara’s side, looking guilty and shamed.

“It’s true. The indigenous tribes of the area call it something that roughly translates to ’the foot of the devil.’ They smoke it in small doses, to help them see into the minds of their enemies. It’s a powerful hallucinogenic which causes paranoid delusions, and sometimes self-mutilation. I’ve seen it drive men to throw themselves into fires and stab at their own skin. I smuggled some of it back with me. When it went missing, I didn’t dare report it, else have Customs on me.”

“And so, you, Dr. Maugham, you took it, diluted it into pill form, and then you started recommending it to Brenda to deal with the stress of her brothers and her life. When she started telling you about her fears of being watched and followed, you realized it was working and would recommend more to relieve her. But it wasn’t working fast enough, was it? You had to find a way to get her to inhale quite a bit of it, the way it was meant to be used.”

Frances snorted, defeated, her eyes scanning the room before landing on Sherlock’s. “Just so.”

“Thus, when you found out that Edmund had not only become aware of your affair, but that he had started one of his own…it came as a Godsend, didn’t it?”

“That little bitch! So judgmental of everybody else, and there she was, fucking my husband.”

“What?” Lara gasped, clearly surprised.

“Edmund had begun an affair with Brenda Tregennis, but he never told her about the true nature of his relationship with Frances. Frances wanted to maintain the illusion of siblings and so, when he began his relationship with Brenda, he withheld the truth from her. She must have found out. Is that why she stopped trusting you? Stopped seeing Edmund? You knew she wouldn’t expose you, or else she’d be humiliated, but you needed her dead before she remembered to change her will. The night that Brenda died, Edmund had gone to the house, to warn her. Upon seeing Lara, he bolted, not wanting to explain what he was doing, lurking about. He wrote her a letter instead, knowing she wouldn’t listen to him, or even let him in the house, and somehow got it to her that night.

“I can’t say what the letter said, but I imagine it was full of warnings and apologies and explanations. At the end, he begged her to burn the letter, so that nobody would be able to find it, not realizing that his wife had infused the paper with a powderized form of the root. When she tossed it into the fire, with the poor ventilation, she got the full effect of the root. The next morning, when the maid came in, the vapors were so overpowering that she fainted. But she had also left the door open, allowing all the telltale odors to just slip out.”

Havers had yet to move away from Frances, but Lara had moved forward, peering at Frances with shock and anger. John could just see Frances’ face. Her blue eyes had gone icy and her face was nearly unrecognizable in its severity.

“Well, you have it mostly figured out. What gave me away?”

“The table.”

“What?”

“The table. Brenda was alone when she died, otherwise there would have been two bodies in here, instead of one. But the door was locked, and so, whoever moved the table over the evidence would have had to have a key. But why leave it there to be eventually found? Whoever moved that table only had temporary access to the room, and knew they wouldn’t be able to get back in later to wipe away the evidence. The cover-up, as it were, was a spontaneous and opportunistic act. The kind of act that would take place after a maid unlocked the door and let the fumes out, after fainting from them herself. The only other person on the scene before the Inspector arrived was you. The maid herself stated that she had no mobile and, since there is no phone in here, she must have been sent out to the hall to call the police. She was only gone for a few moments, and you had only ten minutes until the police would arrive, and so you took what you thought was going to be a temporary measure, and moved the table over the signs of a violent death. From there, it was a simple matter of convincing the local Inspector, with whom you were in a relationship, that it was as straightforward as it appeared. That she had killed herself and that there was no need for a drug test, nor for a lengthy inquest. You must have heaved a great sigh of relief once she was buried in the earth.

“Imagine your surprise, when you found out that you were never going to inherit the house, or the family fortune. That you were too late, and Brenda had long since changed her will back to her sister being the sole beneficiary. Not only did you get nothing, you didn’t even have the opportunity to cover up your own tracks.”

“Frances,” Havers interjected. “Is that true?” John felt a moment of pity for Havers, who had no doubt felt himself extraordinarily lucky to have made a catch as seemingly fine as Frances. But Frances didn’t even cast him a glance. She was still riveted on Sherlock.

“When you heard from Havers that we had come to look into the matter, particularly at the behest of her sister, you were enraged. You then thought better of your outburst and sought out my colleague to give just enough true information as to be misleading, as the truth so often can be. But before you did that, you had Mary lead you up to our room and, when she left you to it, you snuck in and left some of the powdered root in one of the myriad potpourri bowls.”

John felt that it was spectacularly unfair that, the one time Sherlock had decided to fill him in ahead of time, he had left out something so magnificently important. It seemed John was forever doomed to be gormless at every crime scene. As it was, Frances was beginning to look severely unhinged--eyes darting and hands shaking, her eyes afire with hatred.

“I know because we‘ve been exhibiting mild symptoms of paranoia and hallucination these last two days. And, when I tried to use one of the bowls as an ashtray, I got *quite* a dose. Pity I happened to get lucky.”

“Quite,” Frances responded and, faster than John would have suspected from her, she smashed the glass she was holding against a nearby table. Havers, torn between his duty and his lover, froze spectacularly as Frances seized the opportunity to take the jagged glass edge and launch herself at Sherlock.

Apparently, Sherlock hadn’t been expecting the woman to be as ferocious as she was, for it was less than a second before she had tackled him backward to lie on top of him, attempting to jab the hunk of glass into his throat. As a doctor, John knew that, in the right place, it could do fatal damage faster than help could be given.

 _No, not twice in one day. I can’t almost lose him, only to lose him again._ It was like Moriarty’s cruel caprice, all over again. John hurtled forward, trying desperately to shove Havers’ dead weight out of the way.

John heard a sickening thud and, by the time he’d maneuvered himself around too much furniture and the useless Inspector, he was afraid of what he’d find. He hadn’t dared bring his pistol with him, with so many witnesses sure to be about.

John found himself skidding forward and then to a complete stop. Sherlock was still lying back on the floor, stunned and a bit dismayed. Atop him was the unconscious form of Frances Maugham, a trickle of blood visible through her blonde hair. What was most surprising, was the figure of Lara Tregennis, brass lamp in hand, looming directly above the pair of them, breathing hard.

* * *

And so, they ended *that* night perched on the back of an ambulance, as well. Frances had manages to score a hit on Sherlock’s arm, but thankfully his coat had managed to absorb much of the damage. A few quick stitches had solved the matter adequately. John now sat next to him, leaning into his side happily.

“This actually ended out quite well,” Sherlock ventured.

“I’m curious as to how.”

“Well, we solved a murder, John. Had fantastic sex. Grew closer. Isn’t that what holidays are about?”

“More or less,” John chuckled. “Although speaking of which. After our discussion about you including me in your plans, you didn’t think to include the bit about her _drugging_ us?”

“Well, John, you can’t expect me to change overnight. You’ll have to leave me a few moments of grandstanding. Besides, I didn’t think that she would respond so…aggressively.”

John laughed at him. “That’s what you get for mocking me for being beat up by a girl. Not so funny when it happens to you, is it?” He asked good-naturedly, happy to be alive and together.

“ _That_ was no girl, John.” Sherlock spluttered in indignation.

“So, what about Moriarty, then?”

“What about him?”

“Well, you were so convinced that he was a part of this. You haven’t mentioned how he fits into it all.”

“Because he doesn’t,” Sherlock responded jauntily, hopping up off the back of the ambulance. He stretched his legs lightly, while looking around. Off John’s impatient look, Sherlock shrugged. “As I told you, Dr. Maugham had been sneaking us a powdered form of the drug. A drug which causes hallucinations and paranoia, and who knows what other physio-psychological effects. We came into this already at loose ends, expecting it to be Moriarty, and our paranoia just grew as the drug took effect. As it no doubt did for Brenda. I can’t imagine what her own personal demons were, but they must have been great indeed for her to react the way she did.” Sherlock paused for a long moment, and John wondered if Sherlock was remembering his own foray into hallucinations, or if he was remembering some other narcotic-induced haze. John couldn’t help but wonder what demons Sherlock had had to compel his own cocaine addiction. John hadn’t ever asked him, and wouldn’t now. But maybe, now that things had changed, he someday would.

Sherlock caught John staring and continued, “Moriarty never entered into it. Not this time, at least. As I keep telling you, it’s useless to theorize ahead of the facts.”

Sherlock took the moment to study John’s face; his eyes half-lidded and his lips stretching into a tired, contented smile. It was quite becoming and Sherlock didn’t feel the same yearning rush that he had last time he was in such a position. But only because he knew that he would have all the time he wanted to explore it further later.

“Huh, look.” Sherlock turned in the direction John nodded. Across the yard and lingering by the front door were the figures of Lara and Sterndale, hands clasped and heads close together. It was an intimate scene and, while Sherlock couldn’t pretend to be truly touched by it, he was still glad at it.

“A pity Mr. Sterndale couldn’t find it in him to come forward about the root earlier,” Havers stepped forward, his voice subdued. Frances had already been taken to hospital under police guard to recover from the blow Lara had given her. Havers had been quiet during the whole process and now approached John and Sherlock. “He could have saved us all a lot of heartache.”

“In his defense,” Sherlock responded, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat, “I doubt he knew what Frances was using it for, even if he suspected she was the one who had stolen it. He was gone when Brenda eventually succumbed to it. Even if he suspected, I doubt he would have had much power to stop it.” Havers looked less than forgiving and, in fact, looked furious.

“What is it?” John asked.

“I went over to the Maughams. To see if Edmund would confirm your theory.”

“And?” Sherlock prompted.

“He’s dead. Stabbed. By his wife, it seems. We won’t know til forensics has finished and Fran--Dr. Maugham recovers.” The announcement put a pall on the moment, and Havers found himself storming off to recover.

“Why would she kill him?” John asked, stunned and inexpressibly sad. “What was the point?”

“Because he tried to warn us.”

“What, when?”

“That first night. The stones against our window. While I was researching the will, I took a few moments to slip by the practice. Dr. Maugham was out, but her husband was behind the desk. It took a bit of creativity to get him to come around to the front, but I eventually got a very good look at his shoes. Trainers.”

John decided that it was probably better not to know how Sherlock had gone about such a feat and the pair sat around for a few minutes more, until they were permitted to leave by both the ambulance and the police. They hadn’t gotten very far before Sherlock heard his voice being called. Turning, he saw Lara trotting toward him.

“Mr. Holmes. I…you’ll be leaving?”

“Yes. Tomorrow, unless the police want us to stay.”

“I think they’d rather see the back of you.”

“Yes, I agree.”

“Mr. Holmes, I…I wanted to say thank you. For believing me. Or at least, for coming down here in spite of not believing me. I realized, we never discussed payment. What *is* the going rate for a private consulting detective these days?” She smiled, and John thought that she looked as pretty as he had ever seen her.

“Nothing at all, Miss Tregennis. You saved my life. I’d say we’re even now.”

“We already were, Mr. Holmes.” She smiled tightly at him, nodded, and then turned around, walking spryly back to where Sterndale waited under the streetlight.

* * *

 **Epilogue.**

Saturday morning found John awake early and surprisingly energetic, in spite of the residual ache in his backside. Sherlock had rogered him royally last night and, in spite of the usual languor that overcame John after sex, he found himself lively and awake.

Pulling out his laptop, John entered in his new password and signed into his blog. He had spent the previous day writing up the case for his blog, judiciously leaving out certain parts. The last thing he needed was Mrs. Sterndale beating on his door demanding answers. He had posted it late last night, as Sherlock had begun to drag him off to the bedroom. Sherlock had decided to make good on his promise to bugger John over every flat surface in their flat. John was surprised to see that he already had a comment for the story.

From: Sherlock Holmes  
Comment: ‘The Cornish Horror’? Really, John?

Rolling his eyes, John opened a new tab on the browser and entered in the address of Sherlock’s own website. Ready to leave a sarcastic comment on the twat’s site, John almost didn’t notice the new announcement posted under the title.

“Now welcoming public consultations.”

 **END.**


End file.
